I have waited many years for someone to ask me to join a book club. When we lived in Sussex all those years ago, there was a rather snooty one run by a woman called Liz. As an unpublished, desperate and depressed author I hoped that I might get the nod. I never did.
In France there was a book club run by a lady called Sue. I was asked along once or twice but I think I ruined it when I took my friend Carla along and we spent most of the evening cracking jokes. You see it was a very serious book club, more of a study group really, and it was mostly in French. No gossip at all. Hopeless.
Here in Abu Dhabi the women all seem to belong to book clubs. And I have again failed to get the nod. So the other night I had an epiphany. Why not just set one up myself? That way I can invite only women I like and whom I won’t mind listening to as they drone on about their husbands/boyfriends/children/expanding midriff, which is of course the main point of a book club.
I have asked my friend Noch and a couple of others to join. I think we will start off small and membership will be given only very grudgingly as revenge for all those years I was left book club-less.
And another good thing is that my one New year’s resolution is to read more. As a journalist I find I only read more if I have a deadline. And there can be no better deadline than your very own book club.
Happy New Year.
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2010