A couple of months ago Fi and I were asked if we would like to join a new book club in the village. Apparently, there is already a book club in the village but the waiting list (?) to join is so long it has become something of a secret sect. Thus another group has formed. We meet every 4 to 6 weeks in someone’s house and discuss the nominated book and drink and eat nibbles – a very convivial evening. Whoever hosts the evening gets to pick the next book for discussion. We hosted last time so I rather railroaded the book choice (sorry, Fi) this time around. “Cannery Row” by John Steinbeck.
Being a huge Steinbeck fan I’d read it before, years ago, and fancied reading it again. Now, I have to be careful here, but the make-up of the group is 7 women and me, (maybe the blokes around here don’t read novels) and I have harboured a little concern that the book choices might be wall-to-wall Ruth Rendell. I know I’m digging a hole – but wait.
Curled up on sofas and floors we sat and drank wine, nibbled and discussed the book. It was clear that we had all enjoyed the book, which pleased me (given that it’s a favourite), but what surprised me was that out of the discussion came an appreciation of the book which was broader than my original thoughts about it. So much more is contained within its pages than I had appreciated and, my point is, this came out as a result of the discussion.
I’ve always said that I’m not the sort of person who joins “clubs”. One of my favourite quotes is by Groucho Marx …… “I won’t join any club that will have me.”
But there you go, I’m in a club (but I’m not wearing any badges. I am an individual).
News of our group is getting around the village and it has been described as “just a group of women needing an excuse to drink wine and chat” . I don’t think the dissenters know about me. But what can be better than sitting around with a group of friends, drinking wine, and chatting about books? (Just so long as it’s not wall-to-wall Ruth Rendell !)