Friday's artichoke remnants
Once a month, usually somewhere in residential South London, a bunch of women get together to talk books. And eat. Mainly we eat, but occasionally we try to get books into the conversation somehow.
Despite the recent trend for pregnancy, the majority of us still manage to consume a sufficient quantity of beverages according to the time of year. Gin & tonics for the current sticky, damp summer; large glasses of red when there's snow resting outside the kitchen window.
This collection of sometimes intimidatingly intelligent women, who spend their days teaching, researching, saving lives, being a social worker, lawyer, art curator, and now a mother, has found a special spot in my life. We now share joys, heartbreak, laughs, and a whole lot of food.
Last Friday found us right near Loughborough Junction de-flowering steaming artichokes, sipping a Costcutter sauvignon blanc, and talking through the mastery of Angela Carter's bloody tales.
It's near impossible for me to think of a better way to end the working week. Even if I consistently end up stuffing the two days beforehand full of book because of my disorganisation.
No comments:
Post a Comment