Book Clubs

This morning as I was standing in the rain on the crowded platform waiting for the train that was delayed for 20 minutes by mechanical failure, I realised that a man I see waiting there occasionally was at the beginning of Julian Barnes's new book called George and Henry or something - actually Arthur and George - see http://www.julianbarnes.com/.

It looked like a Christmas book, or at least it was one of the books I was hoping my family would see in a shop and go "oh Mary would like that" and buy it for me, wrap it up and put it under the tree, because not only is it about eminent Victorians who were friends and it was disturbingly long, it was also beautifully bound in cloth with a gold embossed picture on the cover and interesting heavy paper but it was outrageously expensive in that edition. They probably did see it, all decided it was too dear and that I was so extravagant I'd already bought it for myself and gave me homewares instead. The bastards. Little do they know about the new austerity drive.

Anyway, lucky man on platform with "my" book. Last time I noticed him, he was reading Jay McIneray's Model Behavior and I wanted to tell him it's a lazy, sloppy book and he should read the infinitely more fun Easton Ellis's Glamorama instead. But I didn't. That seemed a bit too much information to share with a man I don't know unless we set up a train station book club.

Should I ask to borrow this book when he's finished?