Ten – London Photography School

I stood outside the Bishopsgate entrance of Liverpool Street station.  Every couple of minutes I glanced at my phone.  The organiser was going to email me with some information about the meeting point, but it was getting perilously close to the start time.  I decided to take my camera out of my bag and hung it around my neck.  I immediately felt conspicuous; I wasn’t used to wearing it.

I crossed the road and started to look for a group of people who were carrying expensive cameras.  I was starting to get worried: I thought of a ‘plan B’; my plan was to explore this bit of the city on my own and hopefully bump into one of the thirteen other meetup members who had paid to go on this expedition.

‘Excuse me… Are you Zara, by any chance?’ I asked someone who was man-handling what looked to be a very expensive lens.  I noticed that her camera was similar to mine, except it was the absurdly expensive professional version.

‘No, I’m not… are you a part of the group?’

I said I was.  Emma explained that the group had met outside a nearby Tesco supermarket where everyone was given an assignment.

‘We’ve got to take photographs of buildings, but we’ve got to take them in such a way that we give the impression of height and scale, perhaps showing them against other buildings, if you know what I mean? Have you set up your camera?’ I shook my head. ‘You’ve got to have a low ISO setting’

I had no idea what she was talking about.

‘I have no idea how to use my camera’ I confessed.  ‘This is my first time in this group; I’m a beginner’.  I had bought my camera a year ago and I didn’t know anything other than how to change a lens.

Emma motioned to me to give her my camera.  She started to press buttons.  ‘Ah, I see that you’ve already set it on monochrome; that’s good.  Have you set the picture format to RAW?’  I looked at Emma blankly.  ‘There’s a picture format that allows you to save both colour and black and white pictures at the same time.  It uses quite a lot of memory though.  How much memory have you got?’  I had no idea how much memory I had.  All I knew is that I had a big memory card.

‘What you’ve got to do is keep it on the P setting – that will be easiest for you’.

‘Is that the idiot’s mode?’

‘Not really, but it’s good enough for what we’ve got to do today’

‘Ah, okay.  So, we meet in half an hour, outside Tesco, right?’

Emma nodded.  After thanking her profusely, I crossed the road to start to take some photographs that hopefully conveyed something about ‘height’ or ‘scale’.  I looked up at the city skyline.  There was a lot up there, so this challenge didn’t seem too difficult, but I continued to feel incredibly self-conscious.

After taking about ten shots of diminishing quality, I ambled over to the Tesco.  I quickly found a group of around ten people who were carrying cameras that had the biggest lenses I had ever seen.  (Those must be ‘wide angle’ lenses, I thought to myself, trying to persuade myself that I knew something). I introduced myself to Zara, our tutor.  Zara was in her mid to late forties and had described herself as a published photographer.  I explained that Emma had helped me to get started.  Zara was softly spoken, but had a commanding presence.

‘Your next project is to concentrate on windows and reflections in windows.  We’re going to head over to Spitalfields market, where you’ll find some narrow streets and then a load of shops.  Look for people who are sitting in front of windows.  I’ll show you what I mean’.  Zara reached for her iPad.  The first picture of was of two men sitting inside a café, chatting.  Other pictures featured reflections and window displays, all were in black and white (which was the theme of the day). ‘The last project was about buildings.  This one is all about people.  People, windows and reflections.  We’ll meet back here in half an hour before doing the final project’.

It all sounded fiendishly simple.

After a couple of minutes battling for pavement space with twelve other photographers, I found myself on the perimeter of Spitalfields market.  I discovered shops, shops with big windows that had kaleidoscopic reflections and customers standing inside shops.  There was a gentleman’s clothing boutique, where the gentlemen sales assistants had fastidiously groomed moustaches.  Two women shop assistants were stood outside in the sunshine, wearing vintage nineteen thirties clothes.  I overheard a conversation about how the shop window cleaner had been insulting.

I could ‘see’ photographs everywhere, but the feeling of being conspicuous was impossible to shake off.  I remembered those instances where I have felt uncomfortable when strangers have taken my photograph whilst walking down the street: I wanted to know what the image would look like, why they image was taken, and how an image might be used.  There is a part of me that wants to control, or to own my own image, but this thought is ridiculous since in London we’re photographed continuously.  

I felt there was a power relation between the photographer and the subject; that a photographer can unilaterally ‘take’ from a subject. I felt that I should be asking for permission every time I took a photograph of people chatting at a café, but the process of asking kills the instant and obliterates the realism of the situations that you’re momentarily documenting.  I wasn’t the only one who found taking picture of people difficult; other students had similar thoughts and worries.

After about twenty minutes, I started to appreciate the time with my camera.  I was looking more.  I wasn’t just using my eyes and feet to navigate my way around the city; I was taking time to look for difference and beauty; beauty that was both accidental and planned.  It was helping me to explore my city more, to get to know it that little bit better.  I had been to Spitalfields market about twice before, and had always rushed through.  The camera made me slow down and to be more aware of my surroundings, to be less of a visitor passing through, and more of someone who was there to taste and to experience the richness of the streets of my city.

‘The final project is about place, and the role of people within that place.  I’m not asking you to take photographs of people, but I am asking you to take photographs which have people in them.  The idea is that because of where they are and what they’re doing, you can appreciate the environment.  And you can take photographs of the dilapidation that you see around you, concentrating on this block, and the one next to it.  If you’re not comfortable taking pictures of people, you can also carry on with what you were doing before perhaps taking photographs of people on buses if you want’. 

Zara again reached for her iPad and very briefly showed us a series of images.  Her photographs were compelling and mysterious.  A shape of a person walking up a flight of stairs or walking in front of a building quickly fires up my imagination: ‘What is that building? Who is that person? Why do they seem to be rushing?  What were they doing?’

We were stood just around the corner from Petticoat Lane which is famous for its market, but the streets were mostly deserted. ‘Although there are not many people around, if you wait, you’ll see people coming through’.

I started to slowly explore the streets, taking time to look around, at the architecture, at the structures.  I spotted what used to be an old factory down a side street.  At the top of the street was a new block of flats, a glass and steel structure which was very different from the brick built factory I could see in the distance.  I was surrounded by physical manifestations of history and change.

A photo I took just around the corner from Petticoat Lane. I clearly remember the disused factory and the empty early evening streets.

I found a bus stop, a little garden, an underground station, an empty Japanese restaurant, a busy intersection and a concrete brutalist-style housing estate that had obviously been built in the 1960s.  Rusty market stalls sat on the street, looking like skeletons, patiently awaiting the next market day.

Before meeting with everyone for the final time I popped into a pub and ordered half a pint of lager; all the walking about had tired me out.  The pub was quiet; most of its residents were outside in the beer garden enjoying the weather.  I downed the beer, thankful of the sustenance, and went outside to find my fellow photographers.

The final part of the Meetup was spent in a Brazilian café which was just around the corner from our last meeting point.  We were the only customers.  Some ordered food and beers and chatted; the idea was to try to take some photographs of a ‘café scene’, but it didn’t quite work: we were more interested in eating.  As we ate, I chatted with a fellow photographer called Amber; we spoke about confidence, the philosophy of interfering with situations and the fleeting nature of moments.

Zara encouraged us to share our best images with each other.  By the time I had returned home, someone had uploaded ten images.  The images were astonishing.  I saw a scene of Liverpool station; an image that had perspective, action, movement, different people, and breath taking sharpness.   It was a familiar scene that was beautifully composed.  The photographic subjects were clearly oblivious to the camera; two girls were walking away from the camera, and there was a man dressed in fashionable clothes toying with what appears to be a notebook.

An image that was taken by a fellow Meetuper;I have no idea who took it, but I think it is awesome.

This is the pic I wrote about.  Again, this is not mine! I love this pic;I wish I could be this talented. Taken just around the corner from Liverpool St. station

Nine – IVC Activity and Social Club

Since it was still early, I decided to go to another event.  Following the rules I picked a time that was half an hour into the future and peered into my phone.  The first event at eight o’clock was something about a social club committee meeting at a pub called The Royal Oak.   Whoever had advertised the event waxed lyrical about its spectacular range of ales and beers.  If the Meetup didn’t work out I reasoned I could have a pleasant swift half before making my way home.  It looked like five people had signed up to attend the event.  I soon figured out that the closest Tube station was Borough which was easy to get to from Old Street.  I joined the group (whatever it was) and RSVPed to say I was going, and jumped onto a Northern Line train.

When I arrived I ordered a half from a spectacularly disinterested and unfriendly barman, and then climbed a flight of stairs, following the Meetup ‘joining instructions’.  I walked into the only room I could find; about ten people were sat around a large table; they all had papers in front of them.  I immediately knew that I had interrupted something important.

‘This is the IVC committee meeting’ a voice said, challenging my presence.  There was a long pause. ‘You can either sit in during the meeting, but we don’t know how long we’ll be – and then we’ll be down for a drink, or you can join some of the members who are probably already downstairs’.

A chap then stood up and took the initiative to escort me out of the room and down the stairs back to the pub.

‘This is Andy, and this is Clare.  And your name is?’  I told John, the president, my name.  With introductions complete, he bounded upstairs to return to his important meeting.  I sat down.

‘Are you a member?’ asked Andy.

‘No.  I was on my way home, and I saw the event advertised, and I thought I would come down to find out what it was all about’.

IVC was an abbreviation for ‘Inter-Varsity Club’.   Andy told me that it was formed in the 1960’s from different university societies.  It had about five thousand members and has a number of different branches, both within London, and in Essex.  The club runs a range of different activities which can include meals out, trips to the theatre and walks.  Members can run their own events if they want, and there’s a central committee that co-ordinates everything.  It’s totally not for profit (unlike other social groups that I’ve heard of), and apparently had its own written constitution.  There’s a nominal membership fee per year.  It sounded good fun.

Andy and Clare had known each other for years, and Clare had been a member of IVC (off and on) for about fifteen years, having left and re-joined a number of times.  Andy quizzed me as to how I saw it advertised.  It was at that point I decided to tell them both about my quest.  Clare’s jaw dropped, and Andy was incredulous.  This began a whole new conversation about technology.

‘IVC pre-dates the internet, and I think it might die a death if we don’t do something about it’ said Andy.  ‘We’ve run some joint Meetup and IVC events, but really ought to decide what to do, whether we should just ditch our entire website and just put everything on Meetup.  Because of when the group was formed, its members are of a certain age, and we really do need some younger people to join’.

About three quarters of an hour later, the committee had come down the stairs for some sustenance.   ‘Are you a new member?’ Colin, the vice-president asked me, as he was ordering a pint of craft ale at the bar.  I then spent a bit of time chatting to John about the club and its activities.  Everyone was warm and friendly.  They all clearly knew each other for a long time, and they didn’t mind an unexpected gate crasher in their midst.

Before leaving, I had a final chat with Andy.  Any suspicions that he might have harboured of me had disappeared, along with his second pint of lager.  ‘You’re welcome to join’, he said, telling me more about various events that are planned.  I shook John’s hand, and said goodbye to Clare.  Moments later, I was walking towards London Bridge station for the final leg of my journey home.

As I walked, I thought about the Meetup I had just been to.  I was pleased that I had told them about the one hundred Meetup quest, and this led to quite a bit of discussion, but something was missing; I still felt that I didn’t really have a measure of the group as a whole; I needed to ask more questions.  I needed to learn about what motivated people.  In the case of IVC it was clearly a case of friendship, common interests and shared adventures, but there were more stories that I needed to uncover. Why was John the president?  How often did they have these committee meetings?  There was something else: the welcome I was given by the IVC people had given me some confidence.  By the time I put my key in the lock of my front door, I was more certain about what I needed to do.

Eight – Ruby Hacknight

I was disappointed.  I was going to another technology event.  I wanted to go to a Yoga or a Christian night; something unexpected and difficult.  I wanted to go to a night that was just as fun, entertaining as joy filled as the atheist night.  I was sure that technology nights could be fun too but I couldn’t help but feel that going to a tech event was close to what I did in my day job.  My random choices seemed to be pointing me back to where I started from.

With minutes to spare, I found the entrance to the UK head-quarters of a company called Yammer, a few minutes’ walk from Old Street Station. 

‘There’s pizza over there if you’re hungry, and you can get a beer out of the fridge which is down below the table over there’ a friendly receptionist informed me.

I looked into the fridge.  It was stocked to overflowing with alcoholic delights.  There were about six different types of beers, and big bottles of cider languishing in the bottom.  I opted for a bottle of beer, and soon got chatting to a Hungarian chap called Levente.

‘I don’t know what Yammer is all about.  Do you know?’

‘It’s an enterprise social network’ my new drinking buddy replied.

‘Ah, okay… So, the chief executive can use it to tell his or her employees what they ate for breakfast?’ I said mischievously, taking a swig from my beer.

Levente was from Budapest and he was only in London for three days.  He was visiting the city on a trip to the headquarters of the technology company he was working for.  The Yammer event was a part of a wider programme of talks that was a part of London Technology Week.

Within minutes, everyone was encouraged to sit down so the evening could begin.  There was only a single talk but there were two speakers. One seemed to be more of a ‘product’ guy, another seemed to be more of an ‘engineer’ guy.

‘Who here knows what Yammer is?’ the product guy asked.

Almost everyone put up their hands.  ‘This is going to be a long night’, I thought.

The talk centred upon the Yammer software development process.  The technology speaker was engaging; he asked the audience questions, had a good set of slides and maintained a good pace.  Underneath it all was the question of how do you design an organisational structure that helps you to create a solid software system.  He argued that creating a culture that works is really important; creating software is fundamentally tough since developers are building products that don’t exist in any tangible form.

The talk was less about technology and more about people and process.  We were told that teams were set up to work on projects or problems that last anything between two weeks and ten weeks.  Members of the team are made up of people who have different technology skills; there will be some ‘front end interface people’ and some ‘back end engine’ people and everything will be led by a ‘senior technical lead’.  This structure meant that the knowledge of the software is shared around between different people.  In the world of start-ups where there is a high demand for engineering talent, sharing of information is really important, since the last thing you want is key developers walking out of the door taking away knowledge and experience that only they know about.

By the end of the talk, I still had no real idea what Yammer was all about or what it did, but I know quite a bit about how they made their products.  It was an interesting insight into the world of a tech company.  Judging by the quality of the questions in the question and answer session, the audience seemed to be appreciative.

The presentation area seemed to empty quickly; visitors were clearly eager to get home.  I walked with a couple of tech people who were heading back to Old Street underground station.

I looked at my watch.  It was still early.  The ‘Ruby Hacknight’ group had been fun, but I hadn’t done any computer hacking or learnt anything about a programming language called Ruby.  I also realised that I needed to be bolder.  This was again one of those instances where I should have taken the time to chat to the presenters. 

‘It’s still early days’, I thought.  ‘You’re still figuring out how to do this quest’. 

Seven – London Atheist Activist Group

It took me a couple of minutes to get my bearings after leaving Southwark tube station.  My destination was the student’s union at London South Bank University: I was going to a series of lectures that was hosted by the university’s Atheist Society. I was secretly relieved; it had been a close call between going to the atheist group and the London French Speaker’s group, which was second in the calendar.  I had mixed feelings: what does atheist activism entail?  Does is mean knocking on people’s doors and telling them that they shouldn’t believe in Jesus?  What kind of discussions take place at these meetings?  I put these niggling worries to one side and enjoyed the short walk to the university; it was a gloriously sunny day, and an opportunity to visit a new part of the city that I had never been to before.

‘Are you here for the meeting?’ asked a friendly voice.  I confirmed I was.

‘That’ll be a pound.’

‘Would you like a stamp?’

'Erm... Yes'.

An inky blotch was stamped onto my right hand.  It was the kind of stamp that you get in nightclubs to signify proof of payment.

‘Is there a bar?’ I asked.  Everyone smiled.  Of course there was a bar.  This was the student’s union.

After buying a beer I inspected my inky blotch.  It was a depiction of something called the Flying Spaghetti Monster (FSM), a fictitious character that I had heard about in a book by leading atheist Professor Richard Dawkins.  Those who believe in the Flying Spaghetti Monster are known as Pastafarians.

I got chatting to a young Polish chap called Oskar who was clearly on his own.  Oskar had been studying Computer Science at Imperial College London and was at a loose end; he had learnt about the group through Facebook.  After chatting to another group of people conversations merged; a common theme was that religious people had taken over London’s speaker’s corner.

The first speaker of the day was a well-known academic, A. C. Grayling, author of ‘The good book: a secular bible’.  The subject of his talk was about ‘causing offence’.  He made the point that if people become offended (for whatever reason) this has the potential to close down the potential for discussion and debate.  I interpreted his arguments to mean: we shouldn’t be worried about causing offence because free speech is of fundamental importance.  A corollary was also presented: criticise ideas rather than those who hold them.

There was one part of his talk that made my ears prick up.  Grayling talked about the ebbing and flowing of beliefs: people are likely to acquire a particular belief system because their parents hold a certain belief system.  Children, he argued, generally accept what parents tell them because it makes evolutionary sense to do so.  When we become teenagers, we forge our own identity, which could well mean not believing anything that our parents tell us.  Later in life, we may return to religious belief if we have some form of mid-life crisis.  Generally, people don’t stick with their new found belief system; after a couple of years they recover from their crisis and revert to being sensible again.  These were points that I needed to be mindful of.

Grayling also had something to say about love.  Love, he said, is something that is profoundly irrational, and it is also irrational to believe in astrology, crystals and the power of prayer (I’m taking liberties with my paraphrasing at this point!)  To fall in love, he argued, is also to enter into a contract with unhappiness; a thought that made me feel sad. Putting his views on love to one side, it was a cracking talk; engaging, well-polished and thought provoking.  Interestingly, he also mentioned some intriguing difficulties that the founders of the university Atheist Society had encountered with both the student union and university.  Apparently there had been complaints.

The second talk of the evening was by a chap called Charlie who was a secretary of the Lawyer’s Humanist Association. Like Grayling, Charlie talked about issues that the student society had to grapple with.  He connected his talk to the importance of free speech and the rights of people who choose to express their views.  I learnt of another dimension to the event; it was apparently the society’s first birthday.  The stage was decorated by a ‘happy birthday’ banner and a couple of helium balloons.  In the bar area there was a table that featured a ‘flying spaghetti monster’ cake (which, sadly, wasn’t made out of spaghetti) that the society secretary had made. Like all good parties, there was also jelly.

During the break I got chatting to a committee member called Ella.  I asked her what the controversy was all about.  She took me to see a poster.  It featured a digitally edited version of the ‘The Creation of Adam’ fresco by Michelangelo which depicts God being carried by cherubs, index finger outstretched, reaching towards Adam, who is naked.  The poster replaced God (a white man who has a grey beard) with the Flying Spaghetti Monster.  Instead of a finger, he, it, or she, whatever this monster is, uncurls a starchy tendril towards Adam.  It was a great poster.  It was simple, arresting and thought provoking.  It also has the headline, ‘Looking for logic? Pastafarianism is a real religion’. 

‘Someone complained.  We don’t know who made the complaint, but they did – they wouldn’t tell us who it was.’

They had put up posters in prominent locations during fresher’s week, just like all the other university societies.  The following day, they had been taken down and there were reports that the society’s stall had also been removed, leading to a complaint that the group was being censored.  They were told that it was due to someone having an issue about ‘Adam’s genitals being on show’.  When they offered to blur them out, it was then stated that the problem was one of religious offence.  A media firestorm ensued, but the issue was amicably resolved when it was argued that the university had an overriding duty to support its students but not their beliefs.

The second part of the event comprised of three short speeches.  The first was from Andy who was from a body that represented humanist organisations.  The two other speakers were the heads of two different atheist Meetup groups.

It was a great event.  It felt warm, inclusive and friendly.  If I wasn't on this ridiculous quest, I would have joined and become a regular member.  There was talk of other events in pubs, and a weekly trip to speaker’s corner to do rhetorical battle with those who wish to persuade us to believe in the supernatural. 

Just before I went home (after my second beer), I had an opportunity to have a chat with the new president.  He was in his second year of an English literature and writing degree.  We talked about books, journalism, writing, and jobs.  He was great; he was very easy to talk to and gave the impression of someone who could do a good, solid job.  For a president of an atheist society, he also had a brilliant name: he was called Christian.

Six – EpiServer

It was half past five in the afternoon.  I was sat in a Sushi bar in South Kensington after spending the day manning an exhibit at the Natural History Museum.  I opened my phone, then the Meetup app, and looked down at the calendar.  It decided that I was going to an EpiServer Meetup hosted in a company in Farringdon.  Two tube trains later, I arrived at the entrance, buzzed an entrance buzzer and climbed a flight of stairs.  A chap called Dave offered me a cheery hello, a handshake and told me to grab a beer.

Like in all good parties everyone had congregated in the kitchen.  I guessed there were about fifty or sixty people, all chatting away.  I grabbed a beer from one of the two huge buckets of ice that were sitting perched on a table.  The bucket was surrounded by a thoughtful mixture of tasty salty snacks.  I was liking this event!  It had a positive buzz to it.  It was certainly very well organised, whatever it was about.

‘Good choice!’ I said to a chap who was standing on his own, looking a little uncomfortable.  I motioned to the brand of beer he had chosen.  My new friend was an Irish chap called Trevor. 

‘Are you an EpiServer developer?’ he asked.

‘I used to be a developer, but not an EpiServer developer.  I’m just here, you know, to find out about new developments in technology’ I explained, which had an element of truth about it.  I chastised myself yet again; Trevor struck me as the kind of guy who might have appreciated the random reason of why I was there.  Trevor, it transpired, was hoping to speak to someone about a project he was involved with.

‘These guys are from the parliament’ Trevor gestured to a small group who obviously knew each other well.

‘What, the UK parliament?’ I asked stupidly, not really taking in what he said.

Within fifteen minutes the mist of confusion started to clear.  All the fifty or so people in the room were at a bi-annual meeting to share information about enhancements to a software product that could be used to manage and deploy large websites for commercial companies.  By large websites, we’re talking about sites that are run by huge multi-national companies.  We’re talking about big stuff; massive consumer electronics conglomerates, airlines and governments.  I had no idea what I was going learn, but I hoped it was going to be interesting.

The Meetup consisted of a couple of technical presentations.  A chap called Lee kicked off with the first presentation.  Lee came from the American office and talked about a new ‘commerce’ bit that had been added to the new release.  Unexpectedly, I had a vague idea about what he was talking about.  Lee projected computer code onto a big screen with a data projector and did stuff with his computer.  He talked about software interfaces and architectures.  He was giving us a show and tell.

The second talk was by a Scandinavian gentleman whose delivery style was profoundly uninspiring. He talked us all through their software testing paradigm and the code release strategy.  Since I wasn’t working with the product and couldn’t really appreciate the challenges of ‘cutting code’ and working with architectures, I found his talk extraordinarily mind boggingly tedious.

As I sat in the back of what was a very sterile room, my mind began to wander.  I looked around.  The office was devoid of any character or substantial evidence of productive work.  In a software shop I would expect a couple of walls plastered with post it notes and scribbles, acting as ‘information radiators’ for developers who grapple with problems that have been rendered real through sketches and pictures.

As I started to wonder about the culture of the EpiServer company, another thought came to mind.  Listening to these talks made me realise what I didn’t want to do: I didn’t want to be a software developer.  I felt that I still wanted to work in tech, but I wanted to do something different; I didn’t want to spend my days sitting in front of a computer, even though I once enjoyed the challenge of gaining mastery over problems and machines.  This was a revelation that was disconcerting; I had, more or less, dedicated my life to learning about computers and computer programming.  This was a reflection that I had changed, and this EpiServer event was helping me to realise this.

I decided to have another beer.

After a couple of hours, it was time to head off home.  I enjoyed my journey home.  I caught a train from Farringdon.  The station had been thoroughly remodelled since I had last been there.  It was now flash and modern; it was a glass and steel construction and it was unrecognisable from how it used to be.  As my train edged its way south, there was another surprise in store: Blackfriars station.  This too had changed.  Blackfriars has a platform that crosses the river Thames.  As I sat on the train, I had a spectacular view of the city.  I could see the Thames, St Paul’s cathedral and a forest of high rise buildings.  I caught a glimpse of The Gherkin and the new cheese grater; a veritable sandwich of a skyline.  My final stop of the first leg of my journey home was London Bridge which was being reconstructed; another reminder about how my city continues to change.

Five – Networking for Entrepreneurs

I looked at my phone the moment I stepped off the train.  It was half past five.  The next event at six o’clock was entitled, ‘how to move your business to the next level’.  My phone told me the journey time between London Euston and Charing Cross station was eight minutes.  This left me just enough time to grab a cheeky bite to eat, and walk to the venue which was close to The Savoy Hotel. The venue turned out to be a pub, and the event was well signposted.  In an upstairs room I found a total of five people chatting, exchanging business cards. 

‘Do you run a business?’ asked Tony, who later turned out to be the star attraction of the evening.

‘No, I don’t.  I’m in technology, and I’m interested in the connections between technology and business’. Now that I had done four random events, I felt that I ought to start to ‘man up’ and tell the truth.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only oddball in the group.  I was introduced to Helen who was a painter.  ‘I used to paint portraits’ she said, ‘now I specialise in flowers’.

I decided I needed a drink.

After a bit of chatter, Tony said, ‘are we ready then?’  He turned on a television which was used as a screen for a PowerPoint presentation.  Tony described himself as a serial entrepreneur.  From what I gathered, he managed to set up a legal advice company, which was then sold to a large blue chip company, apparently making him very wealthy.  He now did a lot of ‘consultancy’ work, which meant working with various businesses and speaking to different groups.

‘Why do you want to run your own business?’ he asked us all in turn.  ‘It’s because of the fun, right?  Because you don’t want to work for anybody else? Because you’ve got a good idea? Because you want to make a contribution to society?’  We were introduced to the fundamentals of cash flow and marketing, and the importance of mission statements and our ‘elevator pitch’; a short two minute presentation where we tell others about ourselves, our mission and our business.

Despite having an audience of four people, two of whom were not into business, and one other who was the event organiser, Tony gave an engaging talk.  He had a dry wit, and there was a part of his delivery style which said to me, ‘I’ve played to bigger rooms, but tonight, ladies and gentlemen, you’re getting a piece of me, and it’s going to be worth your while listening to what I’ve got to say’.  I have to hand it to him - he had charisma.

‘Do you think you can do sales?  Well, if you run your own business, you have no choice in the matter.  You’ve got to do sales.  I’ll tell you something… You’ve been doing sales ever since you were born.  You were selling yourself with your big baby eyes to your mother, forming a bond using the neurotransmitter oxytocin.  Sales is one of the most natural thing in the world.  Look, I can take someone who has had no sales experience, and within three years they’ll be okay.  A thing you could do, is take a course at RADA, the acting school.  Body language is important…’ 

He then told us that he was a psychopath.

‘I’m a good psychopath’ he said.  ‘I’ve got all the traits; I’ve had a brain scan, I match the pattern’.

One of his memorable quotes was, ‘do you know what the initials MD stand for?’  Everyone looked at each other, waiting for the answer.  ‘It stands for manic depressive, malevolent dictator and managing director’.

An hour and a half later, the presentation was done, and my pint was finished.  So, what had I learnt?  Did I want to go into business?  Did I have that slightly unhinged state of mind that accompanies a desire to be a malevolent dictator?  I don’t think I did.

Four - The Socialist Party of Great Britain

I had never been to a political meeting before, never mind a lecture that had the title: ‘Why Socialists Should Read Dostoyevsky’.   My journey to the regional offices of the Socialist Party of Great Britain was simple.  Rather than going by public transport, I decided to go by motor scooter: a dodgy second hand Vespa that I had bought a few months earlier.  This took me along one of London’s busiest roads: the London south circular, towards Clapham, an area that had been thoroughly gentrified.  Well to do Clapham seemed to be an incongruous and surprising location for a socialist party.  Plus, its offices were next to a very bourgeois wine bar.

I was nervous; I had no idea what to expect. I’m not a very political person.  I am, however, firmly on the left of the political spectrum, so the thought of attending this meeting wasn’t outrageously outside of my comfort zone.  When I was at school, I was taught by an English teacher who worked extremely hard to recruit us kids to the cause.  I remember that he chose plays that had a distinct socialist message, and we were given special lessons about the importance of belonging to a trade union.  He even went as far as organising a trip for a group of kids to visit what was then Soviet Russia.  All this took place in a particularly well-to-do and resolutely capitalist part of London called Twickenham.

After gingerly stepping into the party offices, I was generously welcomed by Alan, who seemed to be the group’s leader.  ‘What do you know about us?’ he asked.  I told him that I had read about the group on the website and that I’ve seen an electronic version of the magazine; I had spent ten minutes looking at the party website before I hopped onto my scooter.  I felt a little uncomfortable saying that I was going to all these different events, so I shared another a truth with Alan:  ‘well, put it like this, I’ve recently joined a union and I’ve become more aware of… Issues, I guess’.

Alan seemed to be happy enough and he offered me a cup of tea.  I asked him whether there was a charge for the tea and he said, ‘there’s going to be a whip round in the break, you can put something in the pot if you want’.

The speaker was a chap called Dave who enthusiastically baffled everyone.  He wore a baseball cap backwards and had a pointy revolutionary beard.  He was clearly a scholar of Russian history, particularly the period that lead up to the Russian revolution. His talk was liberally peppered with ‘-isms’, many of which he claimed to have invented. 

I vaguely understood the first twenty minutes of his talk, and then he totally lost me.  I then clawed my way back to understanding during the final twenty minutes.  From what I could gather, a part of his talk was about his literary interpretation of Crime and Punishment to justify revolutionary action.

His best phrase was ‘meta-rationalism’.

‘What does that mean?  Irrational?’ Alan challenged during the question and answer session.

‘No, it means everything else that both is and isn’t rational; it goes above it, and beyond it, touching our sub-conscious’. 

I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Another audience member was equally perplexed. She stood up.

‘I’ve been sitting here for two hours, listening to what you’ve been saying, and I haven’t understood a word what you’ve said!’ The room fell deathly silent.  

‘I can’t even pronounce Dostoyevsky!’ concluded our angry speaker.

Dave had seriously misjudged his audience.

After a few more questions (which obviously involved the quoting of Marx), I started to get restless, along with other members of the audience.  It was edging towards the moment when I needed to gouge my eyes out with spoons just to get some entertainment: I needed to do something desperate; I decided to have a quick chat with Alan who had escaped to another part of the building.  He too had lost the will to live.

‘Alan, I’m going to shoot off, mate.’ I said, noticing that the discussions were collapsing and comrades were bolting for the door.

‘This hasn’t been the best meeting, I know… But do come back!’ he said, apologetically. He handed me copies of the party magazine and what appeared to be a manifesto.

Three – South East London Meetup Group

‘I used to come here almost every week’ said Alex, our event host.  We were at a Nigerian restaurant called Tommi’s Kitchen, in Deptford, South East London.  It was less of a restaurant, more of a canteen. ‘This was a couple of years ago when I was with my Nigerian girlfriend’ Alex explained.  ‘It’s great!  I love this place’, he enthused, ‘but I haven’t been going as regularly as I used to.  I’ve been once or twice this year’.

There were eight of us.  In addition to myself and Alex, there was Zara from Catford, German Uta from Bermondsey, Ola and Kevin who have travelled from an area called Sydenham, Cara who I didn’t really an opportunity to chat to, and Sally, who lived just around the corner.

‘Have you ever tried one of those giant African snails, Alex?’ asked Kevin.

‘Some people keep them as pets!’ Sally interjected, which started a surreal discussion about the pros and cons of snails as a domestic animals.

Alex talked us through the menu, asking us whether we wanted to have some beef, or chicken, and whether we fancied one of the dishes that was made from melon seeds.  ‘You can have rice, or you can have the pounded yam…’ he said confidently.  ‘The stews are great – I really recommend the stews. They are pretty spicy – do you like hot food?’  Alex was doing a fabulous job, helping everyone to feel comfortable.

Alex worked in a city accounting firm.  He retrained as an accountant after studying to be a classical musician at the Royal Northern College of Music in Manchester.  He’s been the main organiser of the South East London meetup group for about three years, running a variety of social events, ranging from watching the London marathon through to bowling and bingo nights.  He enjoys the meals the most, which are usually held in interesting and unusual restaurants that you would only know about through word of mouth.

Tommi’s Kitchen is situated in a converted pub on Deptford high street.  The entrance is through a huge door that would have once taken you into a saloon bar.  Rather than being presented with a bar, you came face to face with catering equipment that wouldn’t look out of place in a fish and chip shop.  A cavernous seating area could found by going through an unobtrusive side door where you would find a modern bar, a flat screen TV that was showing football and an array of different tables.  Colourful prints were hanging on the walls, taking advantage of the high ceilings.

Within twenty minutes, preposterous portions of food started to arrive.  Pounded yam, spinach, spicy jollof rice, plantain, fried chicken, portions of fried fish, stews, a whole fish.  An astonishing array of food, all washed down with bottles of Nigerian Guinness, which is sweeter and substantially stronger than its Irish equivalent.

After the meal, there was talk of going to a pub; Sally was keen to share some of her local knowledge with us.  She feigned disappointment when I said that I had to be up early tomorrow for a work engagement.  ‘Come on!  Be a man!’ she joked, ‘come to the pub!’  Since I wasn’t keen on having my masculinity derided (and had my new ‘bitter end’ rule to follow), I decided to tag along.

Sally was a northerner, originally from Sheffield.  She emigrated to Deptford decades ago to teach English at a further education college, and had retired a couple of years ago.  She took the lead, marching us towards a mystery destination.  A couple of doors down from Tommi’s Kitchen, we heard voices from a shop that was packed with people.  I stood outside for a moment, and then motioned for the others to follow: we had discovered an art gallery that seemed to be hosting an exhibition.  

‘We were just passing and we saw that you were open’, I said to the gallery manager.  The Deptford gallery was apparently a network of South London galleries that collaborate together, and they sometimes run evening events to showcase the work of different local artists: a new London discovery.  We ambled around the gallery, looking at the exhibits, chatting to each other.

Fifteen minutes later we were on the high street again. Sally pointed towards a side street.  ‘Those are Georgian’ she said. ‘I’ve heard that some of them still have original features, like, in the top levels they have wood panelling which have come from old ships’, alluding to Deptford’s historic naval heritage. ‘Some of the really old houses even have tunnels that go directly to the Thames’.  Smugglers were mentioned.  I’m not sure whether I believed any of it, but I wanted to believe it all.

After crossing a couple of roads and passing by a complex mix of different buildings; blocks of flats built in the 50’s and tiny modern terraces, we arrived at our final destination: a Victorian pub.

Two – London Silicon Triangle Drinks

The first half past six Meetup took place in West London.  The event, advertised as a ‘drinks for London’s Silicon Triangle’ was hosted in a company that specialised in film and media post production (of which I knew absolutely nothing about).  The Meetup was said to comprise of technologists, investors, entrepreneurs and people who had some kind of connection with the media industry. 

Even though the app ‘chose’ the event, this was an event that I felt that I could handle; I felt that I could talk about some of my ‘day job’ stuff without having to disclose that I was on a mad quest of self-discovery.  This thought made me realise that I needed yet another rule: rule eleven; the honesty rule.  The rule is, ‘tell the organiser why you are at his or her Meetup group at the earliest opportunity’.  The only exception to applying the ‘honesty rule’ is if someone, most likely myself, becomes in physical danger, or full disclosure is likely to significantly upset the dynamics of a group.

A bonus was that I was already dressed for the part.  I wore a relatively smart pair of black jeans and an office shirt, all topped off with a smart looking jacket; I felt confident.  I soon found my destination; a sign advertised I was in the right place.  I pushed an entrance buzzer and heard a crackly ‘hello’.  The door buzzed open.  I immediately found myself standing amongst a group of five or so smartly dressed strangers.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ a voice said.

‘Erm, yes, I’ll have a beer!’ wondering what I was getting myself into.

I soon got chatting with a chap called AJ who described himself as an investor, and Charlie, who was dressed in a smart light brown casual suit, wore a beard and had a very impressive pair of glasses.   

‘So, erm, do you work for a big financing company?’ I asked AJ.  AJ was new to the city and still finding his feet.  I couldn’t really pin him down as to whether he had a job, worked for someone, or in fact had access to any money at all, but he said that he was interested in ‘any opportunities’ and one day hoped to run his own investment fund.  This set Charlie off, who started talking about investments in film, and gave us an anecdote about an ‘off the cuff’ million pound deal that he had heard about when he visited the Cannes film festival.

Charlie was an intense guy, and a little suspicious about the kind of person was drinking his free beer.  ‘Whereabouts in London do you live?’ he asked.  I told him that I lived in South East London.  This threw him. ‘So, what have you got to do with the Silicon Triangle then?’

‘I don’t have anything to do with the Silicon Triangle’ I replied.  In fact, I didn’t really know what this mythical Silicon Triangle was all about.  I needed to say something. ‘Well, I work north of the river, and this is north of the river, and I read the description that the event was all about technology, which is my interest’.  I was annoyed with myself.  I wanted to tell Charlie that I had visited his event ‘by accident’, but I knew saying ‘this is the second event on a quest of one hundred different events’ would sound weird, and he might ask me to leave.

‘North of the river…’ Charlie echoed, digesting my spectacularly vague reason to acquire a free beer.  He thought this over for a moment, and then accepted my explanation.

Since I was ‘a tech guy’, he introduced to the co-owner of the company that was hosting the event, Alan.  Alan was smartly dressed and about my age, and he appeared to be bewildered by the whole event that was taking place in his office.  Alan’s career started in film, and eventually through hard work and persistence, he managed to form his own company with a colleague called Darren.  The slick talking Charlie who I had spoken to moment earlier was, apparently, their new sales manager.  ‘He’s only just started’, Alan explained. ‘We’ve historically got all of our business through word of mouth’.

I was impressed by Alan. I asked him what post-production was all about.  He described the connections they had with film and television companies and the role of editing and visual effects.  ‘Sometimes there are creative tensions’, he said, ‘and sometimes you get the best work out of very different people who spark off each other’.

We moved on to chat about technology.  Alan spoke about a consulting contract that they had with a university which was some kind of government scheme, resulting in some software that they use as a part of the process.  I chanced by arm, and gave Alan one of the two names that I knew from the university he mentioned.  ‘Do you know Steve?  You know, the guy who does stuff with CCTV cameras and sport, trying to get computers to analyse matches?’

‘Yes! I know Steve!  He was in charge of the project when it ran a couple of years ago… How do you know Steve?’

Ten minutes of chatter later, and I found myself in the middle of a very geeky group.  One of the group thrust a mobile phone into my hand with words: ‘this is his product – try it!’  I looked at the phone, and looked up at its proud developer, and looked back at the phone.  It presented a bunch of words on the screen.  ‘What you’ve got to do is choose some of the tags that you’re interested in’.  I clicked on the tag ‘selfDeprecation’.

‘There’s a problem at the moment, which means you’ve got to click on it twice.  Hold on…’  I gave the developer the phone.  He refreshed the screen and gave it back to me.  I could see two coloured circles with some very small numbers that were, to me, completely meaningless.  I had no idea what I was looking at.

‘I want to learn more about self-deprecation, but I don’t think I’m very good at it’ I said; a quip that was ignored.  I continued to look at the screen.  I pressed a couple of other words, and the phone had to be manually refreshed again.  I had still no idea what I was looking at.  There were more circles and numbers.  ‘You’re going to have to give me a bit of context…’ I said, taking a swig from my beer.  The developer looked deflated.  

It turned out that the product was all about finding new social media feeds based on keywords.  You clicked on words, and it would offer you the most relevant feed, and the numbers related to some fancy calculation that was some kind of weight or value.  His plan was to make money through selling subscriptions.  I remained perplexed.

After chatting to the second company owner (who was a very nice chap), he introduced me to the organiser of the Meetup group, John.  John was very charming and had boundless enthusiasm.  He spoke at length about his group, why he set it up, plans that he had for it and one of this other groups.  His groups were mostly about networking, combined with a bit of drinking, but with a heavy emphasis on technology.  We also chatted about technology, how it always changes, what software developers have to know these days to get jobs. 

‘They need to know about Cucumber these days’, he said.  I agreed with him, not really knowing what he was talking about, but vaguely aware that I was learning stuff.

I had arrived at around seven and left, elated, a bit after nine.  They seemed like a really nice group; a combination of business people, chancers, those who were trying to get jobs in the industry, and people who were out for learning new stuff whilst having a friendly chat over a drink.  John said that I would be very welcome to come again.  ‘Every final Thursday of the month – keep an eye out for them, and my other group; come to that one too!’  In retrospect, I should have been cheeky enough to nab another couple of beers.  Next time.

One – Ken’s Events

I looked at the time.  It was half past six.  I was at home so this meant I had to choose the first group that had an event that started at half past seven.  I started the app and scrolled down.  I saw, ‘Ken’s Events – Discovery and Enjoy London with New Friends’.  Ken was apparently running a ‘Twilight Stroll – (Primrose Hill and Regents Park)’.  If I didn’t mess about and got myself organised, I could do it.  Interestingly, I had heard about Ken before.  When chatting with other Meetup people (or Meetupers, as I call them), they invariably said, ‘have you been to one of Ken’s events?’  ‘Not yet!’ I would always reply.  Not only did this mysterious Ken advertise the event, but apparently he was going to be there too.

I grabbed something to eat and fished my hiking boots from the depths of my cupboard.  I consider hiking (or ‘strolling’, or whatever it is) to be an intrinsically dangerous activity, especially after coming a cropper on a mountain path once, ending up in hospital with a broken arm.  I think it was these memories that caused me to spectacularly over prepare.  After sorting out two layers of clothes, a fleecy jacket thing, stout walking shoes, a rucksack that contained a bottle of water and a pointless energy bar, I was ready to head off to Swiss Cottage underground station (an area of London that isn’t particularly mountainous, despite what its name suggests).

I arrived fifteen minutes early, and loitered around the environs of the Tube station looking suspicious and furtive.  Minutes later, I caught sight of a tall gentleman who was clearly eyeing me up and down.  Like me, he looked equally suspicious and furtive.  Also like me, he wore sensible shoes (but not hiking shoes), and had donned a rucksack. 

‘Are you Ken?’ I asked.

‘I am Wojtek’ he replied. 

‘Are you here for the walk?’  Apparently, he was, which meant that we could both be suspicious and furtive together.

Wojtek was on holiday in London for a week and he had apparently met Ken in a pub, and he had encouraged him to come along.  This was his second Meetup.  Next to arrive was an Italian woman whose name wasn’t Ken, followed by middle aged woman called Chris.  Ten minutes later, there was a good crowd of us.

Ken turned out to be a smartly dressed bespectacled sixty year old city gent.  ‘Insurance or something’, one fellow ‘stroller’ later told me.  Ken said that I could join for an annual fee or pay a couple of quid for the stroll.  After saying that he was a ‘legend’, I gave him two quid, not knowing how many meetups would pass between now and seeing Ken again.

Ten minutes later, we were off, picking a route past Hampstead Theatre.  I soon learnt that my new Italian friend was from Sicily and my new Polish friend was from a city called Wrocław.  Within minutes we were walking along a road that was populated by some shockingly expensive looking houses.  Although I work not too far from where we walking, and I had been to Primrose Hill a couple of times before, this was a part of London that I had never properly explored.

We soon entered the north side of Regent’s Park and climbed a hill towards one of London’s most spectacular views.   We collectively made our way to the viewing area and looked across London.  I could see St Paul’s Cathedral, and quickly found London Bridge which is, to me, a symbol that ‘my home’ isn’t too far away.  ‘That’s the cheese grater’, someone said.  I then wondered where the gherkin was (or the Swiss:Re building), and found it being slightly obscured by another big building.  The London Eye, the Ferris wheel that was erected to celebrate the millennium, could just about be made out.  On the right, there was a mystery building that might have been a council estate of some kind.

As I looked out at all these buildings of the city, I asked myself, ‘I wonder where I’m going to end up’, and, ‘how much of this place do I really know?’

‘Was it Blake who wrote Jerusalem?’ asked Chris, interrupting my thoughts, referring to an inscription that was embedded into the fabric of viewing platform.  ‘I think it was… I have no idea who wrote the music, though’, I replied, recalling that great hymn of Englishness, whilst at the same time gently chastising myself for being a bad patriot.

Chris, it turns out, was originally from Cheshire.  As well as having a friendly smile, she also had a strong northern accent.  As we looked out across London, she mentioned the Regent’s Canal, which I’m gradually exploring during my lunch hours, since it is also close to my office.  It turns out that she is a keen sailor, owns her own narrow boat and can navigate the Thames, presumably in a different vessel.  As we descended from the viewing area she said, ‘I’m always interested in finding new deck hands, you know?  You can’t do it on your own…’

Chris was an experienced traveller.  She spoke about a cycling tour where she was riding eighty miles a day.  Next month she was going on a trip to Tajikistan.  ‘I don’t know where it is, but I’m going’, she said firmly.  I said, ‘that’s erm, one of the former Soviet republics, isn’t it?’ attempting to bluff my way through.  ‘See, you don’t know where it is either, do you?’

On our left we passed London Zoo, a place I’ve not been to since I was a child.  On the right was a vast expanse of open grassland, where I think a game of cricket was being played (this is another sign of being a bad patriot; I know bugger all about cricket).  We followed a path which was increasingly covered by a canopy of trees.

Minutes later, we found ourselves in a formal rose garden.  It was springtime, and the roses were just beginning to bloom; the air was scented.  Although I had been to Regent’s Park about three years ago when I got lost whilst on the way to work, this was yet another part of London I had never been to before.  Ken led us through a maze of narrow paths and up towards an astonishing viewing area, where we were presented with an idyllic alpine scene.

‘You okay, mate?’ I turned around.  Someone else was tired and had decided to take a seat.  My new walking friend was called Andy.  He was a big tall man, in his thirties, and very happy to talk. It turned out that we both work within the technology industry. His was currently a software developer, and I used to be a software developer. We talked about contracting, the craziness of deadlines set by people who don’t know what they’re talking about, the uselessness of advice from human resources departments, and the nonsense talked by management consultants.

The walk took us past an open air theatre; again, something new.  Why didn’t I know this was here?  ‘Look at those fucking prices!’ Andy ranted.  ‘I went to a Shakespeare comedy there once - there wasn’t a bloody laugh in it!’ 

Just as we were approaching the finale of the walk Andy told me about his conspiracy theory about the diamond industry, and this led onto the subject of engagement rings.  ‘I bought one of those once’, I said. 

‘Once?’

‘Yeah, I don’t have it any more.  My ex kept it’ I was still bitter about it.

‘You were married?’

We discovered we had even more in common.  Not only were we both computer programmers and thought a lot of modern art was nonsense, we also had both been married before, both for a period of ten years, both to ‘Slavic’ women.  What’s more is that both of these Slavic women had buggered off with other fellas who were considered to be better prospects than us. 

‘Men are like Dogs… we’re loyal’, Andy ranted.  ‘Women are like cats, if they see another opportunity, they do what the hell they want!’

We found ourselves standing by a lake.  Ken had timed it perfectly.  It was twilight.  As we looked over the lake and the sun was setting, geese waddled between us.  I could hear the chatter of other ‘strollers’ talking and laughing.  The stroll was filled with surprises.  I’ve heard it said that London gives up its secrets slowly, and yet I was presented with three in a single evening.

As we left the park, I continued to chat to Andy.  As we exchanged stories, it stuck me that he was deeply hurt and embittered by his impending divorce.  I thought of what I could say to him, to offer some ‘man to man’ reassurance, and quickly came to the conclusion that anything that I might say could easily sound trite.  Instead, I continued to share more of my own story with him, with the hope that he would take solace from the fact that other people have to work through the same crazy nonsense that he had to go through.

The stroll ended up in a pub.  Shod with hiking shoes, I felt hideously overdressed.

‘What is this place?  It’s brilliant!  This looks like some kind of old masonic hall, or something’ exclaimed Andy. We pretended to give each other silly handshakes.

After ordering a pint, I chatted with Andy and my new Sicilian friend who, using her smartphone, showed me some renderings from a Danish ecological architectural competition she was entering.  They looked pretty impressive.  Ken then came over and asked whether we would like to join him at a table (he is an excellent event host).  I gracefully declined; my time had come to head off home.

As I made my way to London Bridge station, I regretted leaving so early.  I regretted not having a chat with Ken, to find out more about him and his group; to learn what motivated him to set it up.  It was then I decided a new rule was needed, rule number ten: ‘you must stay until the end of an event, irrespective of how much you might hate it; if you leave early, you might miss something that changes either your perspective or your life’.   Rule number ten is also known as ‘the bitter end’ rule.

One down, ninety nine to go.

Introduction

Some simple questions, such as ‘what am I going to do for the rest of my life?’ have really difficult answers.  They’re especially difficult if you’re over forty, single, and suddenly struck with the realisation that you’re never going to be a pop star, a weather man, or a motorcycle racer.

I thought I had everything sorted out when I was in my thirties: I was married, had a good job as a software developer, and owned my own home.  I thought I was on that eternal trajectory that included kids, a wife that tolerates you, and a couple of holidays a year. Then a series of unexpected changes happened: my marriage imploded and I was forced to move to Milton Keynes. Milton Keynes isn’t a great place to be if you’re not very happy. Due to a change in jobs, and life, I eventually ended up living in Lewisham, South East London.

One evening, sitting in front of the television watching soap operas in my pyjamas, whilst drinking a can of strong lager, I chastised myself: ‘this can’t go on; I’ve got to do something’. This thought was followed with a question: ‘What could I be doing tonight?’  I realised two things.  Firstly, that I had accidentally found myself living in one of the most dynamic and exciting capital cities on earth.  Secondly, since I didn’t know what to do with the rest of my life, perhaps I should try to do everything.  It was that moment that I decided that I was going to have a ‘sensible’ midlife crisis by visiting one hundred randomly chosen Meetup groups.

Okay, I need to explain.  Meetup is an app that you can install on your smartphone. It tells you whether there are any ‘groups’ that are near to you. What I mean by ‘groups’ is real people who get together and do stuff.  Before Meetup, if you had an interest in, say, dress making, carpentry, drawing or motorcycles you would find a course at a local college, scour adverts in a local newspaper, or ask your mates.  Meetup makes finding ‘clubs’ of like-minded people a breeze.

So, how would I go about doing everything? I figured that I needed a set of rules to help me to make a choice about what to do. My first rule was: ‘you have to do a Meetup group whenever you have some free time’. I’ll call this the ‘free time’ rule. The idea is to do something when I’m not working or doing any of the essential life maintenance stuff that we all need to do, such as shopping or washing. 

The second rule is the ‘Meetup choice’ rule. This is important; it’s the rule that guides how I choose a group.  The basis of my choice will be a combination of three different things: my geographical location, what is on the Meetup calendar, and travelling time. I’m usually at one of two different places: my office in central London, or at home in Lewisham. If I’m at my office, or in the middle of the city, I open up the calendar and choose the first group that I see on the calendar that is half an hour into the future. Similarly, if I’m lounging around at home, I choose a group that is an hour into the future, giving give me sufficient time to get to wherever I needed to go.

If it turns out that I’m not able to go to the next group in sufficient time, or there are no places available in the group, I need to apply rule three: the ‘bank Meetup group’ rule. ‘Banking’ is an innovation which means that I have to ‘join’ the group, make a note of it, and visit it at the next available opportunity.

The forth rule is the ‘no choice’ rule. This means I have to go to a group regardless of whether I would like to go there or not.  If a group is all about cat juggling, or extreme tidying, I go, irrespective of what it is.

Rule five is the ‘London focus only please’ rule. I’ve seen Meetup groups that advertise holidays and trips to other countries.  My focus is primarily about London and Londoners. Out of town trips are okay, providing that they are connected to London is some vague or tangential way. I’m not going on holidays, no matter how enticing they appear.

Rule six is the ‘no repeat’ rule: I can go to a group only once. I can only go back to a group when the one hundred Meetup quest is completed.  Rule seven is the ‘necessary equipment’ rule. This means that if I need a Kung-Fu outfit or have to visit a Dungeon and Dragon’s shop to buy some stickers, I have to ‘bank’ that group (and, again, go to that group whenever possible).

You have to pay to attend some meetup groups; you either have to pay the organiser, or you have to pay for the ‘thing’ that the Meetup group is doing. Obviously, it’s got to be a reasonable amount of money, but the judgement about ‘reasonableness’ totally depends on the type of event.  Rule eight is the ‘you’re going to go to paid events, except in circumstances where you’re obviously getting involved in some kind of scam’ rule.

Of course, it’s entirely possible that I may discover an event that isn’t appropriate for a low-fat, middle class white dude like myself. No matter.  In this situation, what I do is send a gentle email to the event organiser, explain what I’m doing (under the vague cover of being a ‘journalist’), and ask if I can still come down to find out more about a particular group or community. I’ll call this the, ‘let’s not get into too much trouble and be generally respectful of others, but at the same time try learn more stuff’ rule, also known as rule nine: the ‘inappropriate Meetup group’.

Before I start, there’s something that I must say. This madness is neither endorsed nor condoned by the company that runs the Meetup app.  I don’t work for Meetup and I have no connection with them (other than popping into their offices to say ‘hello’ to them once). They’ve haven’t paid me to do any of this stuff.  I’m just a bloke, who lives in London, who is trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his life.