Boot camp begins each morning in the dark and ends just as the sky begins to get lighter. The instructors bring down a floodlight which helps to light the part of the oval where we're enduring our torture session.
On Thursdays we're put through our paces by Jessie, a delightful young gentleman of the footballing persuasion, who peppers his chat with phrases like, "Owyousegoinarright?" and "Arrightbringidover" and "That's the way, keep on pushin' through" (was he a midwife in another life?).
One of his favourites, which is starting to bug me a little, is to stand near the floodlight and call out, "Arright, I want youse all to come into the light." I'd be surprised if young Jessie has yet hit his mid-twenties, and I know we must just be a faceless sea of decrepit old hags to him, but implying that we're ready to shuffle off this mortal coil is just downright insulting.
Besides, when I go, I know it won't be a serene white light beckoning me, it'll be flickering flames.