The case against book clubs

Picture the scene: it’s 8 p.m. on a Tuesday. You’re sitting on the sofa in the home of someone you barely know, gulping supermarket wine, making inane chitchat with friends of friends as you all put off the inevitable: discussing a book only a third of the women – always women – in the room have actually bothered to read.

In your head, you’re counting the minutes until you can excuse yourself for the last train home, wondering what’s happening on tonight’s Bake Off and engineering a strategy to quietly remove yourself from the group WhatsApp without appearing rude. You stifle a yawn and subtly check your watch while necking yet more wine.

Sound familiar? Welcome to book club. If you’re a woman aged around 25 to 65 you will probably know the set-up only too well: a monthly gathering of supposedly like-minded bookworms who meet at alternating members’ homes to discuss a chosen book, usually over some food and copious amounts of booze.