I don’t know who invented the idea of book clubs, but as of today I am firmly of the opinion that they should be tied up in a sack with a brick for company and thrown into the nearest deep river. I was meant to be in Houston today and a hurricane torn city with a curfew would be preferable to rural Lockeridge. Why? It turns out tonight is our turn to host the monthly meeting of the Kennet Valley book club. When I say our I am of course speaking figuratively as males are barred from membership. Given that the majority of the literature in this house is mine, and is not confined to 19th Century English Literature (other that the collected works of Trollope) this represents the worst form of sexism. Now that could be lived with (see title) but I see no reason why I should be excluded from the sitting room from 0730 this morning to allow cleaning and removal of inappropriate literature. Not only that visits to the kitchen to make coffee have been frowned on as it is disrupting preparations for the evening event. I have resorted to playing the collected works of Leonard Cohen in the mess that I call my study to reflect my mood, and will disappear shortly to the local pub with daughter and son to minimise our impact on the event. I am contemplating arriving back drunk in animated discussion of Dostoevsky as a precursor of existentialism and way in which the exploration of free will and reason in The Brothers Karamazov is reflected by the actions of Mathieu and Ivich in Les chemins de la liberté. It will make a change from similar past returns singing Bread of Heaven.
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