No room at the book-club
A couple of Edinburgh book-clubs will be raking over The Well-Tempered Clavier this week. I’ve been invited along to one - tonight, Tuesday - to go through my schtick. Some booze may be swilled. Questions may be asked. Books may be signed. But the one on Thursday, I am NFI. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that I have been snubbed. Quite deliberately and with malice aforethought. ”But why can’t I come?” I asked. “Surely they’d like to see me. They’ve probably got lots of things they want to know. I could sign all their books.” ”You’re not coming and that’s final,” said Margot, my wife. ”Maybe we could go along together. Get a baby-sitter for Thursday. It’d be great fun.” ”I don’t want you there.” ”Or we could do it in shifts. I could kick off, give them all the nasty nitty-gritty that you don’t want to hear, and then at about 11pm I could roll back home and you could have your turn.” ”It’s not happening, Bill.” ”But all these women in your book-club - they’re my friends too.” ”Let me see if I can express this in terms which you may be able to understand. You are not coming along to the book-club on Thursday. Period.” ”Maybe they’d like a sort of open letter. Maybe you could read it out to them -” ”I don’t think so …”