The ‘Book’ part of ‘Book Club is a lie.
It is the deceptively intellectual title for the bourgeois pursuit of judging another woman on her dips and crackers.
My poor mother is a member of this society.
And they came round tonight.
What began as providing a few nibbles” to accompany the “literary chat” – (gossip)-
Soon became Come Dine With Me, wherein every woman would try and out-do the previous woman’s carrot sticks.

I came home to my mother, with some harassed expression on her face, pulling quiches out of the oven with the one hand, cutting gateaux with the other and arranging all manner of accoutrements somewhere in between.
But what if my black pepper and sea salt crackers aren’t as good as Liz’s?

I helped my mum carry everything into the room.
All chins were lifted and noses wrinkled to best discern what manner of hors d’oeuvres occupied the trays.
Was that M&S? …Or only Morrisons? 
Moreover I overheard one woman remark angrily to another:
“I was furious with Paul, I came down and he had grilled salmon and asparagus for me, I said ‘Paul you know it’s my book club night: I don’t have dinner on book club night.’ Of course I ate it because he had made the effort, although naturally I didn’t eat the potatoes…”

Twelve women expecting a feast.
The bourgeois apostles fasting all day in order to sample and get snooty about every canapé in turn. The ritualised preparation that usurps the reading and reflection of the book.

Gossiping to each other, they gorged themselves.

Is middle-class life destined to become so barren that the sole source of one’s self-esteem sits in a pseudo-intellectual society of shameless salted-peanut judging?
Will degrees, camping trips and books ultimately amount to nothing more than a suburban catalogue of petty competitions?

And as for the book itself, that great monument of unageing intellect:
I found it the next morning lying abandoned amid the crumb-chaotic carpet.
Unlike the boxes of biscuits, packets of crackers and gossiping mouths; it had been left utterly unopened.

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