UNLESS I do something about it pretty quickly, I am going to become the recipient of "two engrossing novels" by Catherine Cookson and Dick Francis.

And since neither of these authors has featured very prominently in my reading list so far in life, the prospect of having them cluttering up the bedside cabinet, unread and gathering dust, is irritating.

In fact, I have exactly 10 days in which to fend off the coming assault of women's-romantic-type tale and horse-racing-thriller. Otherwise, it's a racing certainty that a heavy cardboard parcel will arrive at home, packaged with the help of those enormous copper staples that tear your hand apart as you endeavour to reach the contents.

It's all my own fault, of course, for joining a book club.

At the time, it seemed like a good idea, as so many things do at the time.

The club was advertised on the back page of one of the glossy Sunday newspaper supplements, which led me to trust that there would be none of the old shady business, with disappearing cheques, non-existent books and shark-like company directors who hide behind a box number and never answer phone calls, even if you are lucky enough to be able to trace their number.

Lured on by the splendid "recruiting" offer of three, ridiculously cheap, good-quality reference books (just the job for our pine bookcase and an absolute boon when my wife is doing her cryptic crosswords) I signed up, feeling vaguely uneasy but not at all sure why.

All I've got to do, I reassured myself after reading the small print on the magazine advertisement, is commit myself to buying four books a year. After that, if I want out of the system, all I have to do is give them so many days' notice, and that's it.

What's to worry about... buying one book every three months?

That was early this year. Now, here we are in late November, and my entire life appears to have developed into a two-way correspondence with the book club.

I've already had three expensive books, and it seems to me that every time I go home, there's another letter waiting for me, telling me that unless I send them an alternative choice within 10 days, they will automatically mail me with what they call "The Editor's Choice".

This is inevitably a hardback that would be the last book in the world I'd take even to a desert island. Also in the letter are invitations for me to join yet another book club while I'm at it, along with a bill for what I've already had.

Since I am so poor at getting myself organised and answering letters promptly - they tend to lie on the kitchen table and get covered up by other stuff like telephone bills and promotional offers for cheap pizzas - the likelihood of me receiving the unwanted "Editor's Choice" is high.

So now, faced with the impending arrival of Cookson's wicked male characters inflamed with lust, tearing the flimsy nightdress off the shoulders of the heroines, and a novel about racing, which I find one of the most baffling and least interesting activities ever devised, I am desperately scouring the pages of my shiny catalogue for something else reasonably cheap and remotely worth having.

Last time I had to put an order in, I managed to persuade one of my friends to get me off the hook by ordering a large, glossy book about embroidery. He was quite happy with the arrangement, as it turned out.

But the choice now looks a bit limited. Lots of heavyweight reference books and pretty picture books, and an interesting adult section including one publication with the intriguing title of "How to Drive Your Lover Wild in Bed".

I shall probably have to settle for something sensible about gardening.