On Friday evening I read Patti’s post about her new bookclub. Thoughtful, poignant words about reading and camraderie. Food, shared interests, fun.
Our bookclub has all of that. Discussion of the book may be brief and to the point, or prolonged and heated. We may spend just as long choosing the next book- we have to examine the covers, read a bit from a random page, consider if we’ve read anything else like it recently. At some point somebody will mention the gore fest that only one of us (stubborn) actually finished.
This time, our discussion was about The Language of Flowers, by Vanessa Diffenbaugh. It was grand. Pleasant enough, but unbelievable, and with a disappointing ending. But you couldn’t hate it. The main character was either a right so and so, or a product of her upbringing. The flower stuff was quite interesting; I’d like to have seen some of the images discussed.
Then, just as the drivers were beginning to think about bringing the drinkers home, the conversation turned.
All other conversations dropped. Sensible discussions about local politics, pretty shoes or knitting, abandoned. Heads turned.
“What? What? What? What did you just say?”
More wine was poured.
Gossip wins over going home. Everyone talked over each other.
There was hilarity, tears of laughter and (I’m sorry, there’s no other word for it) cackling. Sensible, mature, women channelling giggly girlhood and St Trinian’s.
“No! Stop! Go back to the beginning!”
“That’s the trouble with this bookclub, you’re all too interested in the food!”
There are plans afoot.
Will we sneak out for lunch wearing comedy disguises and hiding behind pot plants?
Will we gather for pizza in an interrogation room?
We have a decade’s worth of comedy moments to dine out on.
Shared interests, camraderie, fun. Support, friendships.
I’ll bet that Patti doesn’t cackle…