EVER since I can remember, I have wanted to be part of a book club.

In primary school, the arrival of the annual Puffin Book Club magazine was an eagerly anticipated part of the year.

This was not so much a book ‘club’ as a means of parting parents from their hard-earned cash but I loved it.

Every pupil got one of the colourful pamphlets to take home, and I’d spend ages poring over the pages, trying to decide which book to ask my parents to buy.

Meg and Mog, The Famous Five, joke books....every child goes through a joke book phase – hilarious when you are little, maddening within about five minutes when you are a parent - and I remember driving my family crazy when I discovered the ‘1000 Jokes’ series – 1000 Jokes for Kids of All Ages, 1000 Knock Knock Jokes, 1000 More Jokes for Kids, Oh No Not Another 1000 Jokes for Kids…

In P7, we moved on to the Scene Book Club (Puffin’s big sister) - What Katy Did, Marianne Dreams, the extremely grown-up and ahead of its time Are you there God? It’s Me Margaret...

Sometimes we got the option of joining a regular mail-out, where you could have books arriving through your letterbox once a month. My desperate pleas to be part of this exquisite-sounding exercise fell on deaf ears. My mother – entirely reasonably, I see that now - did not want my tiny bedroom, already bursting at the seams with paperbacks gathered from jumble sales and charity shops, to overflow. Also, it was expensive for a family budget – something else I understand now.

‘When I grow up, I will DEFINITELY join a book club that sends books through your letterbox,’ I’d mutter regularly to anyone who would listen. ‘When you have your own letterbox, you can do that,’ was the reply.

READ MORE: Opinion: Ann Fotheringham - Time to ditch Blue Monday and have a proper conversation about mental health

Of course, once I did have my own letterbox, other things, like mortgages and juggling my own household finances, got in the way. Even when book clubs – actual, physical ones, with wine – got a bit trendy, I never signed up. I couldn’t really think of anything worse than having to read the same book as everyone else and then talk about it. I think I became a bit of a selfish reader, wanting to keep knowledge of my favourite books to myself, as if sharing would somehow make them less precious.

So when I received an invitation to join a virtual book club, I was sceptical about whether I’d enjoy it. In fact, it has been lovely. It’s not a traditional book club, but something more simple – a place to share good reads with fellow book lovers. The organiser keeps it positive, which is great. No-one has to listen to long-winded criticism, or watch as a favourite book is demolished.

People dip in and out, offer suggestions, share book-related news and nonsense in equal measure. It’s taken a few decades and a global pandemic, but finally, I’m in a book club, and it’s like a warm hug from friends, in a world where those are few and far between.