Carol’s Column

Every mother needs a book club

“AGH man,” said my good friend Betty. “What you need in your life is culture.”

I choked on the word — it’s always had that effect on me ever since I was a turnip in a school play at the age of eight.

I rebelled fiercely, as one does at that age, and was told I should be honoured to be chosen to be a turnip — it was all for the sake of culture.

Betty continued: “Yes, what you should do is join a book club. It’s a wonderful way of improving your mind, reading the latest, expanding the intellect and, most important of all, it will enrich you.”

Well, everyone needs a little enrichment in life. So I tried to join a book club.

It wasn’t easy. I applied to eight — they all had long waiting lists.

And then, early one morning, the phone rang. “Congratulations, Carol!” said a voice.

“This is Hermione Adelhead speaking. I’ve got wonderful news for you. One of our members dropped dead after reading the unexpurgated version of the ‘Kama Sutra’ and so now we have a vacancy.”

I accepted with ecstasy.

For my first book club meeting, I dressed appropriately. I wanted to make the right impression.

I wore my cow-brown twin-set, tweed ankle-length skirt, fake pearls (even an oyster can’t tell the difference), flat shoes and borrowed my mother-in-law’s horn-rimmed glasses. If I say so myself, I looked stunningly bookish.

When I made my entrance, I was warmly greeted by the 11 other members.

I shook hands with each one in turn and couldn’t help thinking that one woman had particularly hairy hands.

It was only when I surreptitiously removed the horn-rims for a moment — through which I couldn’t see a thing — that I realised I’d shaken hands with the hostess’s dog.

Fortunately, nobody noticed. They were all too busy chatting away.

However, what I observed in that quick glance was that had I come in fishnet tights and an off-the-shoulder mini-dress, I would have been more appropriately attired.

Twelve books were produced and discussion began in earnest.

I buzzed with anticipation, I couldn’t wait for my mind to begin expanding.

Hermione produced the first book.

“This is a fabulous book,” said one woman, “it’s full of sex and sin. We can all learn a lot from it.”

“Which reminds me, did you hear about old Lawrence Higgins? He’s run away with a 20-year-old contortionist.”

“No,” said another, “and he’s always been such a dry old stick. Who would have thought he had it in him?”

My mind wasn’t expanding — it was positively jumping.

Then came a political tome. Written by well-known professor of political philosophy, I knew the debate would be fascinating.

“Do you think Pik Botha’s had a nose job?” asked the woman on my right with the cerise-coloured hairdo and purple finger nails.

“No, but have you ever seen anything as divine as Van Zyl Slabbert? Imagine being locked in a stationery cupboard with him.” She sighed. So did I.

From politics we turned to novels and great writers.

“I must admit,” remarked our hostess, “I still go for D H Lawrence. His ‘Lady Chatterly’s Lover’ is gripping.”

“Have you ever read ‘Ulysses’ by James Joyce?” I ventured timidly. I felt a little out of my depth you understand.

“Darling, I couldn’t get past the first page,” said Hermione. “Such a trivial writer, so utterly boring.”

Then came a break for tea. “Just a little snack, girls. I know you’re all on strict diets.”

Champagne and orange juice, caviare blinis, cream doughnuts, cheese cake, dainty cucumber sandwiches. It was a simple little affair.

By the time they’d all had their eighth glass of champers, nobody noticed me placing the delicacies into my capacious handbag to take home to the kids for dinner.

That evening, Betty phoned. “So, how was it?” she asked.

“Enlightening, mind-shattering,” I replied. From the corner of my eye, I saw the kids devouring the book club snacks for supper. Their stomachs looked happily bloated.

“And you know what,” I added, “I agree, a little culture goes a long way.”

I mean — why cook dinner when the book club can do it for you?

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