Illustration: Selman Hosgor/The Guardian View image in fullscreen Illustration: Selman Hosgor/The Guardian The Tim Dowling column Family Tim Dowling: can I conquer my wife’s book club? I can certainly divide it She says I’m not allowed to select books as I’m the only man and not a full member. But how could they not love Death Comes for the Archbishop?
Tim Dowling Sat 1 Aug 2026 07.00 CEST Share Prefer the Guardian on Google M y wife would have everyone in our book club believe that the First Rule of Book Club is: Tim Is Never Allowed to Pick the Book. Having failed in her several attempts to have me removed from book club , she has settled for imposing restrictions on my participation to make my membership seem second tier.
“You’re not allowed to pick because you’re not really even in book club,” she says to me before every meeting. “You’re like a mascot.”
“What are you talking about?” I always say. “I’m the beating heart of book club.”
In truth, there is no First Rule of Book Club. There is, however, a longstanding protocol under which my suggestions are given less weight than anyone else’s. This is partly because I’m the only man and my opinions sometimes go against the grain of majority taste, and partly because the only time I did get to pick the book everyone loathed it, including me.
But more than a year has passed since then, and on a night when my wife and I are hosting book club in our kitchen, I feel ready to try again.
I wake to find my wife staring at me over the top of her Kindle, as if I have done something terrible. ‘I hate this book,’ she says Last year I started keeping a list of the books I’ve read on my phone, because I could never remember the names of any of them, even the most recent ones. This list is where I went for inspiration when I needed a solid, unassailable choice.
“What about a classic?” I say casually, when the time to choose arrives toward the close of the evening. Tonight’s book has been universally popular, and everyone is in a mood to see the point of book club.
“Yeah, I’m ready for a classic,” says Nicola.
The book I have in mind – from midway through my list – is indeed a classic, a century old and a recognised masterpiece, but also obscure enough that I can be fairly certain no one else has read it. My oldest son recommended it to me, and I in turn recommended it to his brother. We were all in agreement: a banger.
“ Death Comes for the Archbishop ?” says Emma, with transparent scepticism.
“It’s about an archbishop, who dies,” I say.
“But really it’s about everything,” I say.
Three weeks later I wake early in the morning to find my wife staring at me over the top of her Kindle as if I have done something terrible. Searching my memory for recent crimes, I find myself blameless. But she is still staring.
“Death Comes for the Archbishop?” I say.
“Stupid priests riding around on donkeys everywhere,” she says. “Is it like this all the way through?”
“I mean, that’s the premise, more or less,” I say.
Two afternoons later, while I’m sitting in my office shed, I develop an eerie sense that somewhere nearby I am being discussed. I cross the garden to find my wife talking to the middle one in the kitchen.
“Whatever it’s called,” she is saying. “Death Comes for the Fucking Archbishop.”
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