There are lots of people in Lewes who read, and a fair number are members of one of the many book groups. The word ‘group’ in conjunction with pretty much anything else evokes primeval terror in me, but I’m fascinated by the different cultures of these book groups. One women’s book group I know is based on feminist and socialist principles, so all books suggested must be in paperback (it should not be assumed that people can afford to buy hardback). No wine and home-made cakes, just tea and bought biscuits. The idea is that nobody should feel intimidated about hosting. Shame about the wine, but I think nixing the home-baking is spot on, because showing off your domestic talents can so easily turn into bitch-slapping (“I gave birth this morning and still found time to whip up these profiteroles. It’s all a matter of efficiency and pride. Oh. So you BUY your biscuits do you? So useful if you don’t have time to make the effort.”) Then there’s the level of seriousness of the reading material, and this varies enormously. Some ‘book’ groups are clearly just a front for abandoning domestic duties for a night and having a gossip over wine. Others are more blue-stocking, and steer their way like a literature improvement class, taking in some Proust with their Margaret Attwood. I am thinking of forming a pervy group, revisiting (in a post-modern way of course) all those books that we passed round furtively at school that formed the backbone of our sex education. You know the ones. Lace. Scruples. Anything by Jilly Cooper. You could always tell the most ‘educational’ bits because that’s where they fell open.