Holy Living Fuck

I just got back from having dinner with my book club. Do you think ten women can go out for dinner and figure out their share of the bill? No. No they cannot. I was pretty peeved that the restaurant wouldn't give us separate cheques, and said they had told that to the person booking the dinner, but they didn't.

This was the last meeting of the year, because God knows the world will be on holiday for the entire summer. We talked about The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency for about ten minutes before other books and families and cottages got in the way. I had volunteered to lead the discussion, and found out some interesting things about Botswana that I didn't get to tell them.

They planned out the meetings for the next year, and invited me to come when I can because I had already read some of the books they chose (I'm not really good at making clean breaks). Basically each person chose a book and it was added to the list. Some had read in the paper about the book, or heard the name of it, or saw it on the best seller list and recommended it without having a clue of what it was about. The consensus of the group was that they had tried to be too intellectual this year by including hard books like Paris 1919 and Bill Clinton's autobiography.

Well, I'm going to be up for quite a while. I said yes to coffee with dessert, not realizing it was 9pm by then. Any caffeine after 7, and I do not sleep. It's a lovely, cool night, I have plenty of things to read, and no where to be tomorrow. I miss listening to the overnight service of the CBC, so looks like now I have my chance.