There's something about monthly whatever clubs that starts to feel old very quickly. At least for me. Even in that first month, with the excitement of doing something new, I still get the sense of staring down a long sentence without parole.

Of course, in reality, parole happens. People take breaks, wane in enthusiasm, fade into the background. You're never truly locked into a book club.

But I don't like dithering on commitments. It doesn't feel good. If I accept an invitation to book club, I want to be sincere about the implicit promise to be there for someone in that bookish way. And I can't. I'm picky about the media I consume, I don't want to be told what book to read next.

It's not just that, though. I get the same feeling with monthly, or weekly, dinners or lunches or movies or picnics or catchups or so-and-sos. Most of the time, I want play-dates, not play-marriages. So as soon as I hear there's a time-based ball to chain myself to, I'm out.

Perhaps it's an underlying fear of commitment fuelling my aversion. Or what if I've cultivated a pattern of avoidance through type-A perfectionistic tendencies bordering on delusions of grandeur? That's getting heavy for a blog post on book clubs, isn't it.

To date, the only thing I've ever given myself to with regularity is indoor football. My churchy friends have church, geeks friends have conventions, I had weekend team sport. I adored the psychological toll here. But then, maybe deep down it's because I knew I was on a time limit. That there'd be three decades at best left in my footballing body, barring some superb science or fitness secret that could make me match-fit until I die. I stared down this sentence of week after week, and wished it were several lifetimes long.

Perhaps the most successful book club I participated in was a once-off. None of us were trying to read more, just have a bit of fun. If anything, this affair was a big ask because we're all avid readers who took precious time out of our regular schedule to do this together.

It was just one 398-page dalliance because we wanted to. No strings attached. No need to call the next day or month. We were ships, passing bookishly in the night, carrying fond and unburdened memories to the horizon.