Outsider In an illegal rave

I am in a damp dark corridor, lit only with a handful of LED camping lights. It stinks of bleach. In the murkiness, I can’t see either end of the long narrow space. What I can see is the odd doorway leading here and there with luminescent scrawl on the white walls, optimistically marking out bathrooms and a bar. Whilst I stand in the gloom alone I can hear the roars and sing-alongs of a joyous stadium full of Foo Fighters’ fans in the near distance. I knew this night was going to be ‘an experience’ but the surreal has already started.

Filming an illegal rave for a documentary about party drugs is why I’m here, in these railway arches in East London. I haven’t ever been to an illegal rave. As it’s only 10pm, I can’t yet say I’m at one. This is just the pre-amble, which basically means that all the film crew of two and I have been doing until now is hanging out in a grimy dank space more habitually inhabited by pigeons with a bunch of teenagers – and a French woman called Sophie.

Somewhere in her thirties, Sophie, a softly spoken and relaxed presence, is the only grown up involved in this venture. She is incongruous amongst the largely ineloquent teenagers styling themselves as a rave crew, supposedly running the operation. What I’ve garnered this evening about rave organising is that, if you can’t find an appropriate urban space (read large abandoned remote warehouse) in the lead up to the intended event, you find someone else who already has. Enter Sophie.

I am told Sophie is the resident squatter. My preconceptions immediately struggle with this: the most relatable person for me there, there is no way I can see myself living in this miserable place by myself. What makes someone like her capable and willing – or with no other option but – to live here? I soon find out, however, that, although she ‘squats’ the space, she doesn’t actually occupy it. Huh? She just organises her own ‘parties’ here or, like tonight, rents it to other ravers and then goes home – to her other squat or luxury rented accommodation?? Who the fuck knows – I’m being bombarded by new concepts on a minute by minute basis!

Our way in to this whole venture is via J; a skinny genial kid with large 80s-inspired glasses and little dreadlocks. Literally letting us in is Lewis; square-jawed, good-looking, he talks without really moving his mouth. He un-padlocks the chain and wedges open the hoarding boards that make up the gate for us to squeeze through behind a thick, waist-high slab of concrete.

Once inside, there’s access to three arches. Two still show signs of their previous lives as roads, complete with pavements, signposts and pigeon shit. The middle arch was converted at some point into construction workers’ temporary living accommodation – now the uninhabitable (by mine and squatter Sophie’s standards!) stinking spooky space I’m standing in guarding the filming kit. The film crew, rave crew and a handful of girlfriends and hangers-on are a hive of action elsewhere. Sophie’s gone to get a generator.

A Foo Fighters song I recognise well finishes to the immense roars of the crowd, feeling full of life. Where I am right now I feel… on edge. Jumpy. Finally, Lewis arrives with a padlock so we can secure the kit in a little room. I’m relieved as hell to get away from the perfect horror movie corridor I’ve been stuck in.

* * *

“How the fuck do you not know how to send a location pin? Fuck man! Ok, when you look at your phone, in the top right there’s a little cross….”. I don’t overhear the rest of the conversation but the apparent technophobe on the other end of the phone is the guy bringing the ‘rig’, or sound-system. He’s lost. The closed off roads thanks to the nearby concert are not helping. Neither is the fact that he’s rumoured to have prematurely started his night off with ‘too much’ ketamine. He needs to get here soon, though – the Snapchat invites have just gone out to a couple of thousand people who will be starting to make their way…


The rig eventually arrives, along with a handful of ravers required to remain patient for the time being. As the speakers and decks are manoeuvred into place, the levels of tension visibly reduce – anxious argumentative teenagers have given way to a well-versed cool. It is at this precise moment that a voice and some flashlights interrupt proceedings through the metal grills blocking up the arch we’re currently under. “You’re trespassing. All your activities are on CCTV. We can see you’ve got a sound system. The police have been called – they’re on the way.”. Oh.

I have a decent amount of sympathy for someone who’s just trying to do their job and I see the sense, for the most part, in many of the laws of our land. It’s also against my nature to be deliberately antagonistic. It is, therefore, uncommon to find myself on the side of the fence that I’m quite literally on tonight. But have we broken any laws? The security guard flashing his light keeps informing us that we have, thanks to a ‘Section 19’ notice that’s been served, apparently stuck to one of the outside walls. With our non-resident squatter, Sophie, absent from the scene we’ve no idea if he’s bluffing or not. Our solution for now? Apparently to keep completely shtum, move the rig under the hidden middle arch and wait to see if the police really are going to arrive and break up our party before it’s even started.


The security guards have left for now but in another arch another problem is unfolding. Sophie’s arrived back with a generator, cycled over on a trailer attached to a Boris Bike. Having left it to he boys, though, it looks like they’ve completely effed it up: the pull chord is stuck and the generator Just. Won’t. Turn. On…

Oblivious to the problems, ravers are starting to turn up in droves, able to slip in less conspicuously now that Foo Fighters fans are streaming past our arches, singing and exuberant. Music, dancing, fun… their evening; certainly not ours.

* * *

It’s gone midnight and our illegal drum’n’bass rave looks thus: in one archway, Sophie and a handful of ravers exchange words through or over the fencing with the police who have indeed turned up. In another archway, J and his girlfriend Lola are trying to fix the generator with the help of our director and his handy multi-tool. In the middle archway the remaining ravers are gathered. They sit in little circles, with phones playing out tinny music between them. Some of the girls are sucking on dummies (a practical trend designed to give their jaw something to do when the incessant ecstasy induced chewing starts). Along with braces on their teeth, hair in pigtails and asexuality in sports gear and trainers, it’s impossible to get away from how frighteningly young most of them are.

Their activities to relieve their boredom are far from innocent, however – smoking weed and cigarettes, snorting lines of various powders, setting light to things and starting to tag on the walls with paint pens. Despite their evident disregard for the law when it comes to their Saturday night activities, the idea of ‘grown ups in charge’ seems ingrained – one chubby, pigtailed teenage girl calls out to me from her circle as I’m walking past “’Scuse me, when’s it gonna get started?”. I chuckle inwardly in disbelief. Proving myself even more to be one of the only organised and responsible adults present, I’ve also become the unofficial snack and water point, which gets me chatting to one particularly interesting individual.

Tsar is 19 and has recently got out from a spell in jail. Complaining of his hunger, I’d given him a banana earlier in the night. Now he needs water to wash something sticky off his hands (Seriously, hours of raving with no food or drink?!). “Codeine.” he explains, gingerly holding out what looks like a medicine bottle, “Or that’s what it’s supposed to be. I was gonna sell it but someone opened it and spilt it so now it’s all sticky.”

He’s a tall good-looking mixed race kid with a small but thick afro. He tells me about how easy it is to make money selling drugs in prison and how much you learn in there. He asks me questions about work, what we’re doing here and whether or not we want any weed. He’s obviously pretty bright, as well as quite charming – later on I’ll see him dangling over the fence chatting to the police officers about football. I can’t help but think he could be doing a lot with himself. But before that thought goes any further, and before I find out what he was in jail for, I’m pulled away to witness the latest blunder the night has to offer.

Back in archway one, the final attempt at getting this rave going is underway. Someone has managed to get hold of a cannister of diesel which they are now pouring into a creaky-looking old generator heaved out from god knows where. Does this generator start? No, of course it doesn’t.

It’s Tsar that vocalises what everyone’s thinking: this night is a flop. Evidently ‘over’ their sit-down gathering in a crappy venue, the would-be law-breaking revellers start obediently queuing up at the gate to be let out. The supremely patient and pragmatic police officers who’ve been milling around outside for the past couple of hours are letting it be known that no-one will be in trouble and no sound kit will be confiscated should everyone leave now.

As I go to retrieve the filming gear from its room off the dank corridor in which I started my night, I walk into a thick fug of noxious fumes. The pen tagging that had begun earlier on in the night has metamorphosed into full aerosol graffiti. Not an area of white wall remains.

I trundle out with my suitcase of production kit, past the police. I’m not quite sure how or whether to greet them.

It’s nearly 3am by the time we’ve packed everything into the car. The train station by which we’re parked hasn’t opened yet, so the bored teenage scenes from inside the railway arches have merely been transposed to outside of them. I find Sophie there too and give the padlock key back. I wonder what her night will now consist of.

As we drive off to do yet more filming, I wonder what I’ve just been part of. It has been equal parts surreal, eye-opening, bemusing and troubling… I’d never been to an illegal rave before and, really, I still haven’t!

Outsider In interviews for jobs in TV production

This was my third interview.  Would it be third time lucky?

Interview number 1.

In a surprisingly sombre office, the first interview barely counted: 15 minutes with my interviewer, which I mistakenly took as being a good sign. I thought that it meant my CV and application had just screamed out ‘Hire Me!’ and that the face to face bit was a mere formality.  After all, it was for a receptionist job – a position I’d held a good three times in the early years of my working life – and I’d been called for the interview the very same day I’d applied.  I probably went in feeling over-confident and quite possibly treated my interviewer as an equal rather than my potential future manager; she can’t have been three years older than me.

What I hadn’t yet understood is how TV recruitment works: fast, casual, and on feeling. Although we both knew that I could do a receptionist job standing on my head, her feeling might have been that I wasn’t cut out to be her subordinate.  At least I got some feedback – competent, intelligent (!) but probably more suited to production.  Oh, and not available quickly enough.  Like I said, TV recruitment needs arise, and need to be sorted, fast.

Interview number 2.

Interview number two was for a slightly more challenging role: Office and Executive Assistant.  These probably don’t sound very much like telly roles to a non-TV person, and quite a lot like your average ‘office job’, which I’ve been steadfastly avoiding for the whole of my working life…  Well, they pretty much are office jobs, but in a bit more of an interesting and creative environment.  I’ve worked out that I’m good at organising, coordinating, anticipating, communicating – doing all the bitty things.  And creative industries need people like that to Get Shit Done.

So, whilst I work on flexing that less tangible creative muscle (known as editorial in TV-land) or picking up the technical aspects of production through personal pursuits, I’ve decided my best path currently is to play to my strengths within the industry by making myself utterly indispensable on the logistical side.  Especially as I’d be laughed out of the room if I tried to get anyone to take me seriously as a producer or researcher at this point in time!

I left my second interview high as a kite, feeling like it couldn’t have gone better.  One of the interviewers was finishing my sentences, and so I let her believe everything she wanted to about me. There were no awkward moments, I got to ‘sell’ myself, and I was in there for double the time they’d initially said. By the end I was being asked about my hobbies and holidays. Surely things don’t get any better than that?

I skip out of the bright, young, funky and friendly office, fully expecting to be asked for a second interview the following week, as that was the timeline I’d been given. I even start researching and preparing for the next round.

A week goes by and, no matter how many times I refresh my inbox, no ‘We’d like to invite you for a second interview’ email arrives.  Inexplicable!  I was awesome!  Wasn’t I…?  I start to panic, as the ‘no news is good news’ mantra isn’t doing it any more.  A quick google of ‘what to do when you don’t hear back from a job interview’ and I feel somewhat reassured.  I plan for a follow up email in a few days time, cos I’ll surely get a response either way, right?

Well, apparently, three weeks can go by since an interview, two weeks since you were told you would hear back, and a week and a half since a follow up email, and it is acceptable in the TV industry – or from the interviewers of this company – to not respond.  At all.

No time to dwell, though, as, in the meantime, another company has got in touch with me to conduct an informal phone interview AND I’ve made it through to the second face to face stage…

Interview number 3.

This company and its offices are the biggest and most impressive yet, although a bit more traditional feeling.  They also smell of someone’s curry lunch.  I’m here to try to become the Development Team Assistant – the best title I’ve interviewed for thus far.  On arrival I find that my phone interviewer, and one of the intended interviewers of today, is off sick.  Consequently I’ll just be meeting with the Director of Development.  He is the person I probably have to impress the most but the one I will have less contact with of the two.  I have no idea if this is a good thing or not.

On leaving the interview, I still have no idea.  I feel, bizarrely, like I haven’t had an interview at all.  Not in the standard sense, in any case.  As in, I’m not actually sure if I was asked any questions, or particularly had the opportunity to talk about myself…

I learnt a lot about the company and the details of the role and about the person (my interviewer) and people whom I would be assisting.  It is as if it were purely down to me to decide whether or not the role and company appealed.  Whether or not I appealed to the company is, well, a mystery to me.  When it came to the inevitable end question of ‘do you have any questions for me?’, I almost returned it straight back!  I chose, more diplomatically, to ask him if he wanted me to elaborate on anything, as it’s difficult to shoe-horn in one’s carefully prepared responses to all those standard interview questions that you’ll definitely get asked when you actually don’t get asked them.

I’m left, then, with no sense of where this is going.  Is it possible in this case that my CV and initial phone interview really did scream ‘Hire Me’ this time, and the face to face was literally that: ‘Hello, here’s my face, my arms, my legs, the expressions that I make’, and how bright, calm or personable I am?  And how will my face, arms, legs, eyebrow wiggles and general persona compare to those of the other people coming in for this non-interview interview experience?  Is this more of the casual TV, ‘on feeling’ way of recruiting?

I won’t know for a few days yet, but I’ve been sincerely promised that I will hear back either way.  On this note, I decide it’s time for me to follow up on the ghosting experience I seem to be going through since interview number two: it’s time for the phone call.

Big anticlimax: my main interviewer is in a meeting.   I leave a message and she will ‘hopefully’ get back to me. We shall see.


It’s been three months since I actively started my intensive job hunt in TV and I’m three interviews down.  I remain decidedly not employed in the industry but still sure that it will happen… although where, when and how, even when an interview is staring me in the face, I am, evidently, still in the dark about!*

*Two weeks later I get offered the job from interview number three, so I’ve taken it.  Interview two has still never got back to me.  Their loss.

Outsider In a documentary making competition: It’s edit time

This follows on from my last post detailing the first half of our 36h short documentary making challenge.

It’s Sunday morning and I’m at home, all revved up with nowt to do. I’m well aware that when it comes to editing a documentary you can’t have too many cooks. Maximum two, or you’ll spoil the broth big time, entering into a creative and cooperative nightmare. I am not one of the two, unfortunately, owing to my under-developed editing skills (apparently iMovie don’t cut it), and being slow off the mark to proffer my abode as the edit studio.

My mistake, as I’m finding it difficult to be out of control.  I am ITCHING to tell the story – to stitch together the narrative, to create something worthy of the planning and filming work we’ve put in – and of the subject – our night time food delivery king.  Not having assigned clear roles at the outset or made any one person director means that the final choices come down to the editors.  From my end, at least, our ‘egalitarian easy-going set-up’ could prove flawed now we’re at this point.

At 5pm, team non-edit (friend and I) are at his waiting to receive the first cut to then record some appropriate voice-over.  I am nervous and excited to see it.  When we watch it through, I am… confused and disappointed…  Instantly I start pouring questions out to my friend which he can in no way answer: Where was the footage from this cam, that cam? Where were these bits from the interview?  The story isn’t the one I thought we were telling.  Plus, it doesn’t actually look like a documentary yet.

We watch again and I’m making notes all the while my non-edit partner, a videographer by profession, and well-accustomed to this stage of the process, remains calm.  They have just spent an entire day getting to this point, he reminds me, and they’ve made certain calls – and edits – for a reason.  But, but, I think…

I quickly calm down, and strike through my ‘feedback’ notes.  None of this is mine, despite my claim to ownership as initial idea generator.  It’s a collaborative learning process above all, and I have to put my creative and competitive feelings aside.  As such, friend and I just get on with our end of it: we record an intro and an outro and send it over to the edit team.  We then hop on a train to east London as we’d agreed to join forces for the final touches.

It’s 8pm. We’re in a plush modern flat turned temporary edit studio in Dalston.  There are beautiful views, of which our teammate who rents the place made a lovely time-lapse – it makes it into the credit shot of our film.

We sit down to watch the updated edit that the last three hours of hard work by these guys has produced… and it is SO much better than the 5 o’clock version!  There is a whole variety of shots and footage included now; in a restaurant, Soho at night, weaving shots from the bike through traffic, food close-ups, a title – London’s Night Rider.  Of course it was never going to be just the interview – how stupid of me to have worried that might be the case! The cut of the interview and order of narrative are still not how I thought it would be, but, overall, the doc looks good.

We watch it over a couple of times, make suggestions for final editing, and put together the credits.  It’s after nine when we finally press submit to upload the film to the London Documentary Network competition site.  High fives all round.  Despite our potentially chaotic all in and all hands on approach, and my disappointment at not being part of the edit, it was quite a dream team to work with, and a very enjoyable weekend.  I’m proud of what we’ve achieved, and appreciate all the hard work of my comrades.

Nevertheless, I’ve taken a copy of all the footage in order to create my own version.  It’s amazing how you can tell so many stories with the same footage – it really is all in the edit.

This whole process served up lessons and reminders from start to finish. One, of course, is how people interpret things in very different ways – just looking at the same thing for sure doesn’t mean we’re seeing the same thing.  In filming particularly, I learned that it’s best to designate ONE director, and to be that director if you have a strong vision of the story you wish to tell.  Otherwise play your part and then let it go.  As I’m not sure how well I can handle the latter on an idea I’m passionate about, then the other lesson is to up those editing skills – a surefire way of having a say!

Better get on it, then, the next competition‘s only a few weeks away!

Outsider In a documentary making competition: Get team, make plan, go film

We start in a hidden room behind the back bar of the BFI Southbank.  In feeling, a gentleman’s club or small stately home study-cum-library, with book-lined shelves, leather armchairs and a compact bar.  The small group gathered swells as bodies enter the room bit by bit.

A sticker on my chest tells all present my name.  It also indicates that I have no skills.  That is, no overtly relevant skills for the particular adventure we are about to embark on.  But, I have a secret weapon!  I’ve brought along a friend whose sticker is embellished with little coloured dots denoting all the necessary technical skills – and gear – for the undertaking of the next two days: he has a camera, audio kit, editing software and, crucially, the wherewithal to use it all.

I can’t hang on to his coat-tails entirely, though; I’ve got to prove my worth.  Excitable this morning, and impassioned, I have bubbled into the room and, coloured dot-less as I am, I figure that this is what I need to sell – charm, chat, humour, story-telling, ideas… So I amp it up a notch.  It’s 10am on Saturday but what’s wrong with a little light flirting when trying to complete a team to make a documentary in just 36 hours?

When I had first learned about the Doc in a Day competition organised by the London Documentary Network, I was simply keen to learn the process of making a short factual film from start to finish.  Approaching this weekend, though, I find myself anxiously hoping to get together with a good group, have a great idea and story, and the ability to pull it off.  Basically, I want to make a bloody good documentary.  Consequently, I have slept badly and am not sure that, once I’ve charmed my way onto a team, I’ll actually be able to live up to my promises…


Once ‘crewed up’ by 11am, we were given an exceedingly broad theme (in compensation for our exceedingly narrow time constraints) and we started knocking around ideas.  Most crucially, we needed to see who would allow us to make a documentary involving them.  Luckily for me, a very interesting and personable friend agreed to be filmed.  Yes!  First justification for my being part of the team.

A lot of planning, planning, note-taking, mind-mapping, questioning, planning and, by 4pm, it’s looking good and we’re feeling confident.  We think we know our story, our angle, our questions, and we’ve worked out what kit, locations and shots we might need. We go our separate ways to get all the bits and bobs required, agreeing to reconvene at 7pm for filming.

Whilst everyone else is getting lenses, radio mics, extra cameras, lighting kit and more jumpers(!) my arduous task is to get my bike into Central London.  The theme for the doc competition being ‘Movement’ and our subject the founder of a late night food delivery service, we’ve determined to do an interview whilst cycling.  I’m up for doing the interview – handy, as I’m also the only one with a bike (justifications two and three for being a doc team member).

New to cycling in London, I have, however, never taken that bike north of the river from where it and I currently live south east.  I am more than a little bit nervous as I set off.  Plus tired.  Plus thinking about all the questions I have to remember to ask come interview time…

… a looong time later and I’m at Goodge Street wondering what on earth possesses someone to want to spend their night-time cycling around crazy-busy Central London trying to get food as quickly as possible to want-it-now customers!  Another question to add to the list for my interviewee.

GoPro attached to one set of handlebars, my mobile phone-turned-camera sticky-tape and hair-band affixed to another, and lapel-mics in place.  We’re ready for a jaunt around some miraculously quiet back streets making our interview look like a chat whilst on a food delivery.

Maybe it’s because I’m tired. Maybe it’s because my interviewee is somewhat of a pro interviewer (as an ex-TV presenter) and keeps telling me what (not) to do.  In any case, I’m wondering what I’m bringing to this documentary making party – apart from my bike.  I tell myself that it’s ok if all my skills are currently soft – as opposed to hard and techy – but that they can’t be squishy – flaccid.  Basically, I’ve got to be really bloody good at my soft skills – ideas, organisation, research, questions, story crafting, narrative, people, directing etc etc – if I’m going to get anywhere doing this type of stuff.  And I have decided that ‘this type of stuff’ would be a wonderful way to make a living.

… alternatively, I could go and get myself some expensive kit, then I’d be invaluable – at least in this documentary making comp.  I’ve learned that ‘all the gear and no idea’ can totally get you picked for a team!


It’s midnight and we’re again going our separate ways.  Despite our ambitious set-up of multi-camera filming and sound recording of two people riding bikes (and my insecurities over my own doc making credentials), it all seems to have gone smoothly.  In our surprisingly egalitarian easy-going set-up, each person took their own role and just got on with it, the odd suggestion chipped in from the other members.  No arguments or artistic spats, no director…

This being the case, whoever can and wants to edit will be taking all the footage home and starting the process tomorrow.  I want but I can’t, the mastering of a professional edit suite on my current to do list.  This stage is all a little bit of a mystery to me and, as the footage goes in one direction and I in another, I feel the documentary slipping away, out of my hands.

Nothing I can do then but to get me and the ideas, images, doubts and questions of the day all swimming round my head back home.  And my bloody bike, of course.  I set off with a slight weariness and a small knot in my stomach – although this time it’s not just about navigating London’s streets on my bike.  TBC.

Outsider In an interview at a famous Baker Street address

In my continued hunt for perfect happiness in my working life(!), I am currently testing the route of ‘portfolio career’, that is juggling several jobs at once.  It seems to suit my inability to commit to any one career path (prospective employers, please read “adaptable, multi-skilled and open-minded”).  More appropriately, perhaps, it offers the variety oh so sought after by me.

This quest leads me, this morning, to an unexpected happy ten minutes in a greasy spoon, thanks to beans on toast and a cuppa for an insignificant £2.90! Opposite Marylebone station, in this ‘proper caff’ – run by Italians but as London as it comes – service is fast and friendly, the clientele pleasingly varied, and the food astonishingly cheap.

But my trip to North West London wasn’t just to watch the world go by from Gino’s Coffee Bar.  I was waiting to go to an interview at “the world’s most famous address” – 221b Baker Street, of course.  Not that this is a real address just as its late 19th and early 20th century tenants, Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson were, I regret to reveal, entirely fictional.

Nevertheless, there is a deerstalker shaped space in my heart that he snugly fits into and I had thought, upon stumbling across an advert for positions at the one and only Sherlock Holmes Museum set at the made-up address, that it would perfectly break up the monotony of my primary sitting-at-computer activity.  What could be more antithetical than dressing up in a Victorian maid’s outfit and helping shuffle excited tourists around a teensy terraced house, ram-packed with old artefacts and make-believe?  Nothing!, I hear you cry.  Well then, that’s exactly why I’m here.

I could also – just about – kid myself that this could be filed under ‘arts, heritage and education’ in the career world, and so it sort of fits somehow into what my brain and pride can just about justify as ‘worth doing’, rather than merely ‘a bit of a laugh’ or, even, ‘laughable’…

When I make the move from my new favourite caff to Baker Street it is no hard feat finding the museum, thanks to the already large queue of people outside.  At the front is a young spotty man dressed in a Victorian policeman’s outfit (obviously) and he points me past the gift shop to another small shop-front looking entrance.  I step straight into it to find myself in someone else’s interview: arriving early has backfired as there’s nowhere to wait so I’m ushered straight back out.

Two false starts later and a solid blonde German woman is telling me about the job and asking if I have the required skills.  I patiently give her a verbal run through of my CV, as, curiously, she must have missed the fact that I PATENTLY do from the written version she’s obviously never read.  I think her main concern though is how much of my valuable time I’m willing to give over: the requisite three days I tell her.  All good.  But, I add, no two days back to back due to other work commitments…

Uh oh, wrong thing to say, as I find myself suddenly at the ‘do I have any questions’ for her stage of the interview, and calculating that we can’t be even ten minutes in.  I can almost feel a big fat X hanging over me.  Still I reckon I can erase it and win her over on charm, chat and the common ground of our fondness for the consulting detective…

.. or maybe not.  I am exiting the weird Baker Street shop-front office in the knowledge that I’m unlikely to receive even a cursory phone call or email from them: no news equals no job.  Turns out our solid blonde is not that chatty, nor that big of a Sherlock fan.  Well, I actually am, so I take advantage of her offer to visit the museum gratis (doubtful I’d ever part with £15 to get inside). Recompense for my wasted time, I think, queue-hopping and passing the Victorian policeman again.

My overriding memories of the museum are the narrowness of the staircases, slightly stale rooms stuffed to the garters with era appropriate furnishings and curios, the odd creepy wax work, and a small queue of visitors wishing to briefly warm the chamber-pot with their bottoms.  A lengthy video from the museum website shows you pretty much all of it without needing to visit.

I have a brief chat with a sniffly maid who is ushering visitors into different rooms.  Like 90% of the employees there, she is an actor, making ends meet whilst waiting for auditions and other jobs to come along.  Though she is generally positive about the people, flexibility and pay, I can’t help but find it all a little dispiriting, any enthusiasm I previously had now probably wallowing at the bottom of the aforementioned chamber pot.

I consign this experience to the dustbin and feel the wood and the trees closing in once more.  I read an article* recently to inspire those in a rut or transitional stage in their working lives, which persuasively argued that one should answer the inevitable ‘what do you do?’ question with what you aspire to do. My answer, therefore, is that I am an anthropologically grounded social impact arts, education and sustainable development activist, world travelling, multi-lingual writer and documentary maker.  Who says that can’t be a job?  No?

Bugger it, maybe I’ll just apply for the Foreign Office.  At least civil servant, with its sibilance, slithers off the tongue.

So, conclusion in all of this?  I’m sure finding a career shouldn’t be this complicated.  Plus, cheap baked beans and a good cup of tea – that’s one thing I’d go back to Baker Street for.

*annoyingly I can’t find the article now but it came from these guys.

Outsider In Somerset House: Experiencing co-working at Exchange

My first day

I am already excited as I approach Somerset House.  I enter through one of the west wing doors, past a restaurant that evokes continental terrace dining with some tables set in an indoors-imitating-outdoors passage, and out again into the impressive establishment’s equally impressive courtyard.  I  make my way to Seamen’s Hall, the reception in the south wing, one of my only sure points of reference in this vast estate.

As I wait to be taken to security for my pass – my official Somerset House Exchange co-working space aka this is where I work and will now be a member of the community pass! – I scan the exhibitions currently on: these I will be able to take in on a break, or pre- or post-work.  What a privilege, I think, to be able to treat this magnificent Central London arts and cultural centre as an office.

Pass now in hand, I make my way to the uppermost floor of the House’s south wing and into one of the spaces available for co-working.  I am in a peaceful, forest green room, high-ceilinged and dotted with modern sofas, armchairs, and large wooden tables.  Immense windows flank the room up to which one a small set of steps leads and allows a privileged Thames view.  I experience a small frisson of pleasure.

Before I get down to work I need to locate some necessary facilities and, on my way along a corridor I pass several bags stuffed full of what look like cushions covered in African print fabric.  The bags are labelled for the MOBO awards – Music of Black Origin.  Already I feel I am in a place I want to be.

A Wonderland

The second time I choose to work at Somerset House, I decide against the grand courtyard approach (dancing fountains and ice rink sadly absent at this time of year) in favour of taking a route up the west wing, varying the commute to my new favourite forest green ‘office’.

I enter again from the north-west-ish corner and take a right past Spring the inviting continental-feel restaurant .  Down a long corridor I trot, lined with meeting rooms, or some such, and a second fancy restaurant, Pennethorne’s Café.  Savoury smells waft around me but this is not the moment to test out the extent of my Exchange pass benefits in the eateries of the building; I am taking this variant course to see what new I can discover.  I feel I will not be disappointed as I see a woman further ahead taking photos of a sight elusively out of my eye line.

I reach her spot to find myself facing an installation: sculpted trees from delicate wood and cardboard grow and erupt into chairs, waterwheel paddles, ships and bugs, coloured and lit up in pale aquas.  A uniformed security guard sits, incongruous, beneath the shadows cast.  A sign informs me that the installation, Ulmus Londinium, celebrates “the elm’s relationship with London’s historic built environment, crafts and biodiversity”.  The pleasing associated website reveals the significance of the elm to, and where to find them now in, London.

But I am then quite quickly distracted by an exhibition in the room opposite and I peek in to find exposed pianos, lying on their sides!  I plan to re-investigate all later when sitting in front of my laptop starts wearing thin.  My mission now, though, is to find my way in this unfolding Wonderland maze to my third floor spot with giant windows.

I try my access pass on the first set of doors I come across and – success! – I am through.  I assume I will find my way eventually by trial and error: that my my blippy pass will dictate my path and lead me to my desired destination.  This method proves workable but not entirely efficient as I climb floor after floor to only discover that I am cut off again and again by a series of stubbornly firmly shut doors.

Even so, my frustrating ascent of the grand, Napolean staircase is not without its silver lining as I am accompanied by the sounds of a beautifully-played stringed instrument.  I am enticed, like Alice after the smoke rings of the caterpillar, to the innocuous door number 61 from behind which the music emanates.

I linger awhile, enchanted by the proximity in which I am brought to a whole different world of aural beauty.  A modest laminated sign by the door reads Benjamin Hebbert. Consultant for fine violins, violas, cellos and bows.  Captivated, I imagine, behind the door, days spent floating in the lofty and ethereal sphere of exquisite instruments and sounds; above the mundane, frivolous, bottom-feeding antics of the rest of us where callings are less clear and the meaning of it all blurred, buried or lost to sights, sounds, anxieties and constraints… 

I pull myself away.  I’ve enjoyed my diversions and circuitous meander but I am, unfortunately, here to achieve some kind of job-work.

Down down down in to the labyrinthine more industrial-like bowels of the building I go.  A few turns, dead ends and accessible doors later and I’m sure I’m abso-bloody-lutely lost until I come across a lift claiming to give me access to the upper levels of the south wing.  And sure enough I have the sesame to open up the way (erm, i.e. my pass works to operate the lift) and, sure enough, I find my way again to the peaceful forest green room…

Adventures over for now, I regretfully burrow down into my hole of work, where time unfortunately means money rather than an anxious fantastical white rabbit, late for a date.

A palatable perk

Third day working at Somerset House and I am pleased as bloody punch.  Hunger having overcome me, and my normal working from home routine leaving me unaccustomed to sorting out a packed lunch, I have gathered together my things to head off with no destination in mind but an empty tummy to fill.

Should I cross over the river to grab something on Southbank?  Or wander in a little more centrally?  I only make it a few floors, however, as I’m drawn into the little cafe, Tom’s Deli, on the ground floor of Somerset House’s south wing.

I poke my head in to find an agreeable selection of salads, sarnies, cakes and biscuits.  A friendly server approaches me and it turns out that he will be dishing up my meal and, joy oh joy, he confirms when I wave my pass in front of him that I am entitled to a discount!  It doesn’t just open doors – or refuse entry – it gets me up to 20% off virtually every eatery, drinkery and, I’m hoping, shops, exhibitions and events too.

It’s only a few days in, so I’m sure the novelty will wear thin, but I’m truly enjoying my time as a member of Somerset House and all the perks that I’ll get to test out.  For a different type of co-working environment, look no further.

Outsider In a Guardian Masterclass seminar: How to create a successful blog

I am inside the Guardian offices in Kings Place, Kings Cross, picking my way over the free tea and biscuits laid on as a perk of the Masterclass (six choices of tea-type beverage!).  I cannily deduce that I am in the Guardian’s canteen and take my (first round of) refreshments to a seat where I enjoy a pleasant canal view, boats of all colours, sizes and conditions berthed along the water’s edge.  Not a bad spot.  Away from the tea, biscuits and view, I allow a tiny moment of wonder at being in the offices of the journalistic powerhouse that is the Guardian newspaper

My fellow Masterclassees begin to arrive, the first appearing to be at least 20 years my senior.  I am pleasantly surprised, half having expected many a young, vlogger type, and as the influx of people increases, so do the variety of ages, ethnic backgrounds, and shapes and sizes, with an even spread across the sexes.

The mood is friendly.  I suspect that part of creating a successful blog starts with networking and generally being agreeable.  This in mind, and also wishing to exchange stories with people in similar-ish boats, I strike up conversation.

Around me I discover: a charming Catalan cooking blog, with recipes that take me back to my time living in Barcelona; an ‘old granny’ (her words) taking a, so far short, journey back into the past; a consulting site looking partly to help out tech un-savvy buggers like me; and a German expat about to embark on a new life in, and blog on, the South of France.

So all here to learn the secrets behind ‘how to create a successful blog’, we are nonetheless at very varied stages in our blogging lives.  My fledgling Outsider In flaps around somewhere in the middle.

When called for the Masterclass to begin, we file with our tea, biscuits and chatter, into a seminar room where the 50 or so of us take seat facing a small stage, powerpoint already projected.  Pens and notebooks poised, we are ready to take in how our blogs could take off like those of the two professional bloggers here to speak today.

Three hours and another tea session later, my head is awhirl from a friendly and extremely useful barrage of information on how you can make your blog your livelihood.  Whilst all still fresh in the mind, and before I am surely to be ejected from the Guardian HQ glass fortress, I gather myself into a garish vaguely lip-shaped chair in the foyer and put pen to paper…

Professional bloggers and their tips

Our first speaker, Niamh, creator of Eat like a Girl was buoyant with passion and a love of her blog themes.  Sharing her story of miserable employee in the science sector to professional food and travel blogger, she was encouraging and entertaining and impressed upon us the importance of remaining ethical when making mulah from your blog.

Three things that stood out:

  • Humans are storytellers.  And bloggers are just storytellers in an internet age.  Ergo, blogging is not just self-aggrandising, arrogant and egocentric, it’s actually just normal human behaviour.  So there.  (I’m sticking to that.)
  • Be friendly, community-minded and social – even if this takes place primarily in the virtual world.  Reading other blogs, liking, commenting, linking, collaborating, promoting, sharing, responding and USING SOCIAL MEDIA, all get your blog to readers and readers to your blog.
  • Do not compromise content to generate income, and be transparent.  By having sponsored posts that don’t fit your usual style or content, you are not remaining true to you or your blog and you alienate your readers.

Our second speaker, Julie, is an American expat based in London and creator of the travel and lifestyle blog A Lady in London.  Banking professional turned blogging professional, with a seriously dedicated can-do attitude, she gave step by step building block advice crucial to laying the foundations of any successful blog.

Three important bits:

  • Time and consistency.  It may be no surprise but to maintain a blog takes time and it needs to be regular!  Julie used to get up half an hour early each morning before work to fit in blogging, and she now makes sure she blogs on the same two days each week.  Blimey, I better get a shifty on.
  • In the blogging world, 300+ word posts are considered long reads!!  And paragraphs are best kept to 3-4 lines.  Possibly need to work on my editing then…
  • Give your readers somewhere to go: at the end of a post, make commenting or sharing easy; suggest another post to read; have social media buttons for further connecting; have a search box for readers to find content etc.  Oh, how woefully inadequate my blog still is on these fronts!

Finally, two things they both emphasised to never EVER forget if you want to be a successful blogger:

  • Content reigns supreme!  Above and beyond anything else.  Substance over style (social media wizardry and search engine optimisation) every time.
  • Once you’ve got that down, though, Google and social media will be your constant companions, love or loathe ’em.  Bum.

Should I follow these pearls then Outsider In will be a showcase in transformation over the next months – although professional blogging was never the initial intention when I started.  What lead me to this point was an idle moment over the Christmas holidays, and an email alert from Guardian Masterclass, informing me of a discount on their vast array of career-, life- or creativity-boosting seminars.  A few clicks and £37.24 later and here I am.

If, however, I don’t decide that ‘monetising’ my blog is the way for me, then at least I have found myself in an attractive spot in London, on a sunny Sunday lunchtime with an open mind and a fresh experience under my belt.  I’ll have walked away with two (!) free papers and the ability to forever picture where the Guardian comes together.  Oh, and I also have this blog post, which may actually now be read by one or two of my fellow amateur bloggers!

Conclusions?  Impressed by the calibre of the Guardian Masterclass, I’d definitely sign up for another.  Professional blogging itself?  Watch this space.  Literally.

Outsider Investigating co-working: Exchange at Somerset House

My current means of making ends meet sees me sat in front of a laptop, wherever there be a decent internet connection, mobile phone by my side.  For various reasons, I’m looking for a change.  These posts outline my attempts at trying to make that all happen and here I’m finding out about co-working in Somerset House…

I was pretty excited about Somerset House.  A beautiful and historic building on the northern bank of the Thames, off Waterloo Bridge, it is easily admired on three sides.  Most Londoners would likely know Somerset House by sight, and probably name, but its purpose, what exactly goes on there, is – or was for me – vaguely shrouded in mystery, broadly covered by the brushstroke description of an ‘arts and cultural centre’.

I knew Somerset House mostly by the Courtauld Gallery, occupying one corner of the building, and claimed by my dad to have “one of the best collections of impressionist paintings in the world”*.  A few pleasant afternoons have thus been wiled away there and in the accompanying tea room.  I’ve also wandered a couple of the free exhibitions on the river side and glanced at the odd installation in the courtyard.

Today, I’m going to see about the possibility of Somerset House becoming one of my regular work haunts.  Full of arts stuff, history, and in attractive settings, I reckon it could be a tad more inspiring than your average desk-in-a-cubicle, sofa-in-a-cafe or, even, super charged contemporary-tastic specifically designed co-working espaces.

To virtually prove my hunch, on my way to meet with Aniela, the Tenant Liaison Manager in charge of the Exchange co-working space in Somerset House, I get a chance to listen to some free acoustic music in the courtyard as part of their live music programme.  Brilliant – off to a good start!

I was expecting to be mostly explaining, even justifying, what it is little me would be getting up to here.  Not having an arts and culture-related job (yet) makes me superficially seem like an odd fit.  Instead of asking my own set of questions, however, I am surprised to be started off with a little history lesson on the place, followed by the announcement that I was to have a tour (Shit!  Might be late for my next co-working space meeting – Somerset House is bloody huge!).

I think I was already sold on the place before my visit, so I am eager beaver-like, in case this does turn out to be some kind of informal interview, as we walk, talk and marvel at the ‘estate’.  With her comprehensive but succinct chat on all things Somerset House, I realise that Aniela is very proud to be a part, and that is entirely infectious; I want part too!

By the end of our tour of the best part of an hour, my head is stuffed full of facts and figures, past history and future plans and I’ve negotiated a labyrinth of lifts, halls and offices, cafes, corridors and courtyards, staircases and studios, meeting rooms, receptions and restaurants, galleries and foyers.  Without my guide, I shall surely never find my way again!  And all that knowledge imparted will positively, slowly dissolve from my mind…

So, purely from my flimsy memory, here are some things that I learnt about Somerset House:

  • A lot of Somerset House used to be occupied by the Inland Revenue until they were persuaded, after the financial crash, that the space could be better used in tough economic times, and that they should move out.  Hooray for the creatives and small businesses, who could now take over some of the vacated offices, and renovations could take place to create more flexible and interesting spaces that could be dedicated to arts.
  • Somerset House is a charity.  Maybe not a massive surprise but now you know if you didn’t before.
  • Over the course of 2016, Somerset house is going to be used as an exhibition and arts space that any of its community members can have a part in.  Members even include those that hot desk in the co-working spaces (so could be me!) and ideas put forward for installations have every possibility of being realised!

So… I’m excited, convinced, and sure I want to become a member of this community!

For now, though, I’m late – late to get to my next appointment to see another, rather different, co-working space just a short hop, skip and jump away in Bedford Square…

*My dad says all things with authority and conviction, and spent the chief part of his career as a graphic designer after having studied at the London School of Printing back in the seventies. I therefore swallow, hook, line and sinker, everything he has to say on art (to despise everything pre-impressionist) not having enough of my own knowledge to rebut his views!

Outsider Investigating co-working: What is this co-working nonsense?!

My current means of making ends meet sees me sat in front of a laptop, wherever there be a decent internet connection, mobile phone by my side.  This could be in bed, at a kitchen or cafe table, or in a beach hut in Bali (as yet untested).  Those are the perks.  The negatives are my lack of passion for the job, lack of variety and challenge, loneliness, and too much screen and sitting on bum time.  So I’m looking for a change: a child of the “everything is possible generation” I still refuse to admit defeat on finding work that ticks as many of the boxes as possible.  These posts outline my attempts at trying to make that all happen…

When I first heard of the term co-working, it came from the mouth of my short-term flatmate, occupying the rotating-flatmate other room of our two bed poisonous wonderful shit-hole of dwelling in London Fields. It was poisonous to both body and soul; damp, mouldy and rotting, it crumbled all around us, as our lives and minds went with it… but that’s another story.

Stuck as we were, the three of us (my boyfriend and I were occupying the larger zone of the botched together living arrangement), mostly working from home, my flatmate often described our set-up as “like being in a co-working space”.  Although easily deducible from the composite elements of the term, I couldn’t quite wrap my head around this alien concept, co-working-space.

I suppose, thinking back now, my lack of willingness to understand, or even have my curiosity slightly piqued, came from the association of co-working with other nomenclatures such as ‘start up’, ‘tech’ and ‘coding’, which also tumbled from her mouth.  “I don’t understand these things”, I would say, technology wise born into the wrong era.  And, to myself, “I don’t think I want to understand these things”.

So that was it; it was clear that these nonsensical concepts had no place in my life, and I essentially closed my ears and mind to them.

What a complete IGNORAMUS I was!, as I find myself, almost exactly one year on getting jolly well excited about a whole new chapter in my life that completely intends to make co-working a central part of it, making it the saviour and salvation, the key to ending all my working woes (you can see how the bottom might fall out before it’s even begun)!

So, I have started the trawl of the co-working spaces.  Naively, I thought that it would be easy to find and identify three or four different spaces that I might like to work in.  It turns out, however, that there be near to 200 (and mushrooming) co-working spaces in London, with no area left neglected, from Putney to Farringdon, Brixton to Islington.

Unsurprisingly, the east has the highest concentration of spaces set up for freelancers, entrepreneurs, creatives, start-ups, innovators and any combination of those.  That would explain to me then, from my brief spell of living east, what the inhabitants were all up to.  As I would sit in one of the many cafes that put up with poor leachers like me, spending hours warming our seats and eking one cold tea out longer than ever previously thought possible, I really did wonder what the hell all my fellow hanger-outers or passers-by were actually doing, 3pm on a Tuesday afternoon, say…  Well, they were all obviously freelancers, entrepreneurs, creatives, start-up geneii, innovators and blah blah blah, on the way to or taking a break from their super flexible hip and cool work spaces.  And that is now going to be me!  No more lonely days and hours spent confined within the same four walls!

After hours on tinternet and having my eyes assaulted by websites filled with images of various exciting, modern, urban, vintage, reclaimed timber and steel, and hanging plant decorated spaces, I’m starting to feel a little sick.  And wary.  A short conversation with ex-flatmate later and I’m pointed onto the right track of places worth giving a visit and those worth steering clear of.  My suspicions were confirmed that, for many a money grabbing business type, traditionally rentable office spaces are now being rebranded as co-working zones thanks to a splash of colour (and/or modern, urban, vintage, reclaimed timber… etc etc).  Essentially desk space for travelling city-types but sold in a different exciting-feeling on trend package.  Nah, not for me.

Having finally narrowed it down to a few spaces, my research officially starts tomorrow as I’ve booked in to have a look around a few… reviews to come.


Outsider In a solidarity march for refugees

Refugees: let them in!  Tory government: get them out!”

Say it loud, say it clear: refugees are welcome here!”

Twenty minutes into the march, and we are at a standstill somewhere on Park Lane, but the Young Socialists are making it clear what they’re here for.

We had started at Marble Arch, and the atmosphere for the solidarity march for refugees was festive, high energy – music, stalls, heat; the unexpected indian summer sun breaking into an otherwise grim September in London. Whistles, banners, petitions to sign, socialist newspapers. Dancing, milling around. The march was visibly starting to happen but a lot of people were observing for a while. Maybe they were all protest march virgins like me.

When I’d set out from home, I wasn’t even sure I’d get to Marble Arch, thinking it could be overwhelmed with people and the tube exits choked. When I get off the central line, though, tannoy announcements are being made – “exit three is for those wishing to participate in the march” – and police officers are already there. Good, I think, this is organised. This makes it less scary.

I climb the stairs to the first chants of “Refugees in, Tories out!”. Hmm… well, I know that we’re all pretty upset with how the government is dealing with this ‘crisis’ but I’m not sure ousting the current party at this very moment is going to help matters.

So, my first ever march. Setting off, it all feels a little… disparate. Arriving alone, I remain alone, despite walking side by side, in front, or behind many humans. We are spread out to start with, feeling more like a group of people on their way to a gig in Hyde Park, walking purposefully, bound but somehow not.

I do, though, strike up conversation with three ‘legal observers’, as their orange, hi-vis tabards tell me. I wonder what they are. “Here to monitor the police” is the answer. Mostly made up of lawyers, or other legal professions, they are volunteers who mainly attend marches to keep an eye on the police; make sure they don’t kick off and start abusing their authority in what can be, undeniably, high-octane situations. I see they carry notebooks in which they’ve penned some notes already, mainly remarking how relaxed it all is. So far, low-octane, then.

After 10 minutes of walking, our weak vein of numbers filter in to the main artery of protesters, appearing from a different direction. This is where the chants – and so the real march – starts. It’s also where any movement we had comes to a virtual standstill.

I observe the banners around me. Refugees Welcome, many proclaim, mine included, procured from an Amnesty International soul at the start of the march, who handed them out to the banner-less, visually quieter participants. It makes my hands feel less empty. It also serves to shade my unprepared skin from the sun, and occasionally leads me to feel self-conscious, despite the company: I’m not used to wearing my socio-political opinions almost literally on my sleeve.

The People’s Assembly are here Against Austerity, Stop the War Coalition tell us Don’t Bomb Syria, and the Socialist Worker wants us to open the borders and let them in. (‘Them’, in the context of this march, seems an odd way to describe people fleeing conflict and seeking refuge. I thought we were supposed to be part of the mob putting humanity at the fore, not defaulting to natural human tribal thinking: ‘us’ and ‘them’.) I also see the Lib Dems, the Green Party, and the Socialist Party, among countless others. Then there are the home-made banners:




The bottom line

I felt was one of the most pertinent. At the opposite end of the relevance spectrum was a sign shouting, in large, gold, glittery calligraphy, that Jesus was a refugee too. Well… ok then…

I imagine it is the various messages visually and aurally on display that prompts a group of Kiwis near me to wryly observe that this demonstration serves to show just how fractured the left is. And, about our noisy, chanting, Young Socialist neighbours: “let’s hope they don’t peak too early”. I’m thinking how long are we going to be here?.

I snail past people of all ethnicities, families with their unwittingly political babies, bicycles, buggies, a Jewish octogenarian and his grandson chatting… I switch to the trickling, but faster, movement along the pavement to find some shade. I also find breastfeeding mothers and people in wheelchairs. On the other side of the road, vehicles toot their horns as they pass, which set off cheers, whistles and whoops amongst the crowd.

At this moment I realise I’m hungry and am glad of my foresight at packing a sandwich. Bloody hope I don’t need to pee, though – we’ve just reached the London Hilton Park Lane, and I’m not sure I’d be welcome in there to use the facilities.


Later, as I speed up my walk, I find myself behind a vocal, colourful, militant faction of women. They have battered, home-made banners which look like relics – war trophies – of previous marches, and I feel that protests must be a regular fixture on their social calendars. They are chanting:

Sisters! united! will never be defeated!

No borders! no nations! stop the deportations!”

I ponder that last part, and wonder about the organisation of society without borders and nations. I give up on trying to twist my brain around the idea, and don’t dare to ask our lady chanters to enlighten me, although I’m entirely certain that they have considered the matter in great depth…

Becoming apparent to me is a crude, resentful and extreme sentiment running through an element of my fellow marchers.  Just ahead of the militant ladies another home-made banner displays a charming and succinct, personal message to our Prime Minister: “Cameron, you’re a cunt”. Still by Hyde Park, vaguely offensive signs adorn the railings. Amongst these, hand written jokes and insults against Tories, Thatcher, Blair, Eton boys… I’m not sure I enjoy all this class anger. There are also lots of spelling mistakes. If I hadn’t already understood this about myself, I would be realising today that I’m not an extremist. And that I like correct spelling.

By the time we reach Downing Street I’ve lost my shyness and am able to join in with some of the chants – led by the militant, revolutionist women, who’ve brought megaphones. After all, I do truly believe that refugees should be welcome here. We have a sit down for a while and it looks like we might be staying put but, as it turns out, the protest is mostly at an end.

An anti-climactic tailing off, I mosey along Whitehall, ignore the Anarchists – probably inciting us to murder the rich – and join the crowds on the grass of Parliament Square. I have been informed that Jeremy Corbyn has won the Labour leadership election, and is apparently giving a speech where the rabbles have gathered. Strain as I might, I can’t see him for the crowds, nor can I hear him for the drum and bass party that the Revolutionists have started with their large speakers on wheels behind me.


It’s been about three and a half hours and it’s time for me to navigate physically and mentally back to my habitual life, conspicuously free to do this, in contrast to those for whom I was marching.

I have had moments of feeling elated, united, alone, cynical, emotional, compassionate, confused, ignorant, enlightened, hopeless and hopeful… but, overall, I feel a little weary and not entirely sure what I’ve just been a part of.

Naively, I had thought we would all be on the march for one reason but we were actually many there for many different reasons. I am left with more questions than before I came and unsure of the existence of any answers. And so the only role I can confidently play in this vastness is to put the questions to those whose role it is to try to find answers, whether we have confidence in them or not. Over to you, then, Mr Cameron, and to you too, Mr Corbyn.