Amande's Bed with BOF Alert

I was quite flattered to be asked to
join the mens book club and saw it as
a chance to escape for an evening from
the pit of domesticity in which I seem
to languish overlymuch. This is
entirely my own fault, I hasten to
add, and is cogently explained in
several chapters of learned tomes of
post-natal male psychology. To cut to
the chase, I have become a mature,
intellectually complex, elder
statesman Boring Old Fart.

Oh well, we can't be young forever I
suppose though the list of things I
miss about being young seems to get
longer by the day. The lithe,
muscular torso with six pack (in the
fridge); the wiry ectomorphic energy;
the ability to stay up all night
playing music and still function the
next day. I don't need to go on; or
rather, I do need to go on but it just
gets more difficult as time goes by.
C'est la vie. Anyway, as it turns
out, both nights the group has chosen
to meet up so far have been on nights
when I have been on shift and can't
go. You see, life conspires against
one does it not? The next meet too is
on a night when I am at work and so I
will miss the pleasures of a
testosterone fuelled - preferably even
wine fuelled - deconstruction of John
Aberdein's first novel "Amande's Bed".

On the other side of the coin, it may
be safer to be at work rather than be
exposed as an intellectual lightweight
with the critical abilities of a
nematode. That's just my inferiority
complex showing though - reference
several other chapters of above
mentioned psychological manuals.


Maybe I should just attempt a written review to help bolster my flagging confidence?