Rosie Millard may run a posh book club in the Groucho, but I bet mine among the ladies of Nightingale House (average age 87) is more fun. By Edwina Currie

According to a report published by Libri last month, the public library service spends £1bn of taxpayers' money a year, but only 9 per cent of this sum goes on books. OK, some of it is spent usefully on tapes and CDs and devoted librarians who know their stuff. But the founders of the Victorian Free Library Movement must be revolving in their graves.

If it weren't for public lending rights, many lesser-known authors would be penniless. But what about the readers, many of whom rely heavily on the local library? What about my ladies at Nightingale House, if we didn't have Wandsworth's superb service?

Rosie Millard may run a posh book club in the Groucho, but I bet mine is more fun. Six years ago, the residents of Nightingale House invited me to talk about my books. It's the largest private home in Europe, with around 300 beds. Afterwards they carried me off to a slap-up tea with pastries oozing fruit and honey. "Do you really like books?" I inquired. Frances, who fled the Nazis, answered: "I saw them burning in Berlin. Of course we love books." I explained the concept of a book club. "What a good idea," they chorused, "you will run it for us." And I have done ever since.

Original members such as Betty, Rachel and Leah are now in their nineties, and the average age is around 87, so large-print books and audiotapes are vital. We take into account illness or periods in hospital when members can't keep up, so one gentle arrangement is not to reveal the ending in our discussions. And they decided (not me) that it would be ladies only, because "it's far easier for our generation to talk about sex when there aren't gentlemen present".

We established quickly that it was no good discussing the classics: Frances and Anne-Marie knew them by heart, others only vaguely. I wanted to ensure that every member, formally educated or not, was on an equal footing, so that no one felt left out. Modern British writing was new to most of them, so that's what we would tackle. If they liked one novel by Ian McEwan or Graham Swift, they could read the rest for themselves. And we might persuade living authors to visit us, especially as few residents could get to hear them otherwise.

Dozens of authors have taken the trouble to come, and I am passionately grateful to them. Joanne Harris, Frances Fyfield, Edna O'Brien, Ruth Rendell and Clare Francis have explained over clattering teacups how they write. Tracy Chevalier's promised for October. Deborah Moggach has been twice: the ladies loved Tulip Fever, hated Close Relations ("Too much sex," sniffed Betty). Justin Cartwright discussed his Masai Dreaming, then wrote an article in the Guardian saying how humbled he felt to have written about the Holocaust then be confronted by its victims. P D James (then aged 79) beamed round the tea table and said: "It's lovely to be one of the youngest in the room." Nina Bawden took time off from writing about the Potters Bar train crash that killed her husband to talk about her work. The wonderful Bernard Cornwell delayed a flight home to the US to be with us, and posed happily for photos - that day they all wore their best outfits and lipstick, and looked gorgeous.

I'm the boss, as much as they will permit it. I choose the books, scouring the large-print catalogues and Amazon for the latest quality fiction, and occasionally non-fiction - next up is McCarthy's Bar. The library is an absolute godsend. The ladies may be aged and very frail, but they are sharp-witted, so every session is special, with its own magic.

When Beryl Bainbridge accepted the invitation, it was decided to honour her with Friday-night supper. Eat first, then discuss Every Man for Himself - I thought they might remember the ship Titanic, and it turned out that one lady knew passengers who had died on it. But on Erev Shabbat, there would be no smoking. This was before Beryl gave up earlier this year. She struggled painfully, then nipped out during the lull between the chicken soup and the meat, returning wreathed in the smell of tobacco. As we began to talk, Anne-Marie (94) dozed off, then suddenly roused herself. "Miss Bainbridge!" she said, in her strongly accented English. "Miss Bainbridge, before Edwina tell us to read your book, I never heard your name. I was poorly and could not sleep, so I read it till two o'clock in the morning. And it was wonderful!" I felt Beryl shiver with delight. What accolade could compare?

For their generation, a book is still the perfect entertainment. Their grandchildren think that's funny, but we know better. Please don't tread on our library services, for with them you tread on our souls.

Edwina Currie's novel Chasing Men is to be reissued by Little, Brown

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