I remember the moment I found my people: four women, all sassy feminists who loved cheesy pasta and reading with equal fervour. Our first book club meeting involved Liane Moriarty, homemade dessert and cheap wine: Since then, we’ve read contemporary fiction, books of essays, Stella Prize winners and the odd memoir. We don’t even all read the same book at the same time; with different reading speeds, we wait until we’ve finished the book before discussing it.
But having joined (and left) several book clubs over my reading life, I know that a book club like this is a rare and special thing. It’s easy to find yourself in the wrong book club, quoting the Times Literary Supplement to people who would rather talk about the cheese or feeling guilty instead of enjoying a night out.
