We’re halfway there.
We’re halfway there.
Last night, while watching yet another episode of Line of Duty (an excellent British series we’ve recently discovered on Amazon Prime), I became distracted by the body language of two of the characters.
(One more of the topics that rambled through my mind as I was walking the other morning.)
Funny how being a writer can turn you into someone others might give a wide berth to on a sidewalk, Covid or no Covid.
At one book club I belonged to, we kinda sorta got to the actual book, but the discussion inevitably veered off in some other direction and we were often there for hours. I’d sometimes wonder why I’d bothered to read the darn book at all. Still, the eats were fabulous; we’d gather cosily around a variety of cheeses, cookies, the occasional cake, noshing and chatting.
The next book club had no social aspects whatsoever. I wonder if the original organizer had previously been a rap-your-knuckles kind of teacher. We gathered for exactly an hour and a half, the first hour involved questions followed by discussion, then one-half hour of refreshments laid out in military precision on someone’s dining table, after which everyone rose at the same time as though a bell had gone off.
The other day I was strolling around the complex here when an acquaintance pulled up in her car and offered a book from the batch she’d acquired at the public library; she was starting a book club. I thought what the heck, why not. It was a book I was planning to read anyway: Emily Oliphant is Perfectly Fine. I took it and am enjoying it so far.
The next hurdle is where/how do we meet. I have no intention of sitting in someone’s living room in these germy times. Hopefully we’ll gather outside somewhere.
But for now I at least have a good book to read. And who knows – maybe this will be the book club that’s juuuust right.
I can’t exactly claim to live in a gated community here in Florida.
Just down the road, about five miles away, are the ever-growing West Villages, not to be confused the well-known Villages in the middle of Florida.
Florida often feels like another country. What could be more foreign than 70 degree temperatures in January, when compared to New England’s snow and ice?
(Fellow bloggers: Any idea why I can no longer adjust the size of the font, or see what I'm doing on the composition page, or even make separate paragraphs, among other things? This is awful and is enough to send me to Word Press)
(PS - I just discovered I must have been in the HTML view, not compose. I'll leave my panic-stricken comment above in case the same has happened to someone else. Phew!)
We’re receiving updates from our daughter in the hills of New Jersey on their ever-increasing accumulation levels of snow.