About a month ago, I was asked to join a book club with a group of 12 other expat women. How unbelievably and charmingly American!  I first thought to myself. This quickly turned into “how on earth am I going to find time to read a book each month when I barely have time to read the newspaper?”. I’ve always been an avid reader and it saddens me to even admit that, of late, it takes me a good month or so to get through a novel. Initially, I blamed my iphone. Shortly after getting the phone, which Mr. Cheeseland warned would be dangerous given my dependence on email/social media/news, the majority of my reading was done hand-held and scrolling. Maybe I was just waiting for the novelty of a sleek piece of technology to wane or perhaps I was waiting to cross paths with the right book. Either way, the prospect of joining a club to discuss character development, intrigue, surprise plot twists and psychology over a glass (or 3) of wine and home-baked finger foods sounded like just the activity I needed to shake up my weeknights and get me off the computer.  What resulted was…

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