Our bookclub has always non-gender exclusive. Actually, considering who attends our meetings, we’re not even species-exclusive. Yes, the husband tries to paint our club as female only, but how is it that he’s always encountering men at our meetings? Right, because he’s fishing for excuses not to read Edith Wharton. He has, of course, promised to lead the discussion when we tackle Gravity’s Rainbow. He takes incredible pride in the fact he’s read the thing cover to cover (we usually get stuck when the phallic imagery moves from subtle to downright funny).
All of this is our way of saying we’d be sad if we moved to England. It seems the bookclubs are less diverse. And knowing us (and we do), we’d want to be part of the club that drinks and swears and indulges in shouting matches.
Because that’s pretty much what we’re used to.
- ‘It’s your shout, then we can start discussing VS Naipaul’: The Racketeers are not your average group of men in a pub – they have won a prize for reading books
