Author Archives: carolcooper

The 12 Quotes of Christmas

Posted in Family life, Writing by

Right now you can hardly turn around without hearing the word Christmas, usually accompanied by lame puns on seasonal words like holly and merry, and the lazy journalist’s headline The 12 whatever-they-are, even if those particular whatever-they-are have nothing to do with Christmas.  Well, I’m not about to get left behind in this frantic festive scramble, so here are my 12 favourite quotes.  Just in the St Nick of time.

If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they were always yours. And if they don’t, they never were.”  Khalil Gibran

“What we’re saying today is that you’re either part of the solution or you’re part of the problem.” Eldridge Cleaver

“No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.”  Nelson Mandela

“What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?”  Vincent van GoghMLK crop

“If a man hasn’t discovered something that he will die for, he isn’t fit to live.” Martin Luther King, Jr

“True friends stab you in the front.”  Oscar Wilde

‘There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.”   W. Somerset Maugham

“I still have my feet on the ground, I just wear better shoes.” Oprah Winfrey

“Stupid is as stupid does.”  Forrest Gump

“I have nothing to say and I am saying it and that is poetry.”  John Cage

“You cannot predict the future.”  Stephen Hawking

and that’s why you probably didn’t expect this 12th quote

يوم عسل يوم بصل

This anonymous Arabic quote translates as “One day honey, another day onions” and I think it nicely encapsulates the bittersweet nature of life.

What are your favourite quotes?

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The Day I Never Met Nelson Mandela

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I want to brag about meeting Madiba.  After all, wasn’t I there in the photos, just behind the Spice Girls? Didn’t we do one of his little impromptu jigs?  And did we not shake hands that day in Brixton?  As I recall, I even helped Mandela hone some of his best quotes, like these.

No one is born hating another person because of the colour of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.

 If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head.  If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart.

Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world.”

Alas, the sad truth is that, unlike the rest of the world, I have no personal reminiscences of Mandela to share with you, broadcast, or tweet.

The closest I ever got was holding a placard.   It was decades ago, when thousands of students filled the streets and chanted ‘Free Nelson Mandela’.  Some were committed anti-apartheid campaigners, like the group who held a four-year vigil in Trafalgar Square, but others weren’t.  Looking back, a few of my fellow students probably had little idea of who Mandela was.  Still, it was a lot more fun than going to lectures.

I doubt many people imagined then quite how world-changing Mandela might one day become.   So is he the new Messiah, as some suggest? Mandela in Parliament Square

Until history answers that one, I offer several points of contrast:

There are very few buildings and streets named after Jesus.

Jesus never got married or wrote an autobiography.

Mandela wore amazing shirts.

While Mandela and Jesus were both keen on love, forgiveness, and food for all, there is no record of Mandela ever walking on water.  If he had, he might not have had to wait for the boat from Robben Island.

Rest in peace, Nelson Mandela.

A person dies twice:  once when their heart stops, and again when they are forgotten.   As long as we never forget this wonderful man and all he stood for, he will always be with us.

Mandela plaque WestminsterRelated articles

Seven Days as a Novelist

Posted in Family life, Writing by

Thanksgiving Day 2013 and my novel comes out after spending years getting ready. 

front cover reduced

First cover of my novel

Day One is great:  congratulations arrive on Facebook, in cards and by email.   I don’t have a launch party but I go to Women in Journalism’s Christmas bash.   Everyone can see that I’m floating about 6″ off the ground.  That’s because I’m wearing red suede heels like these.

By Day Two, I’m seeing stars in the form of my first review.  Five stars to be exact, and from an author I respect hugely.  I tell all my friends, which means I post the news on Twitter.  Writers lose their real friends because they spend all their time writing. 

On Day Three I see a neighbour who wants to know all about my book. When I explain how she can buy a copy, for instance here, I get a blank look.  She asks “What do you mean, buy?”

It’s the Primrose Hill Christmas Festival on Day Four   The place is crawling with models, writers, actors, whatever (MWA, darling).  I don’t see any celebs out and about with their noses in my novel, but I spot these supermodels in their new winter coats.

Ruff & Tumble

Monday night is Day Five.   I attend the British Lung Foundation’s Christmas Carols by Candlight at St Pancras Church.  It’s a big occasion so I’m wearing THE shoes off the cover, not a stand-in pair.   Along with Linda Robson, Tommy Walsh and David Oakes, I read a poem. By now my book and I are feeling proper festive.  

jacaranda tree

But that day my elderly mother has another fall and can’t stand up.  I catch a flight out as soon as I can.

She’s in a geriatric hospital.  Her lipstick tells me she’s still fighting but the rest of her tells a different story.  She has severe osteoporosis and has broken several more bones.  They give her morphine which barely helps her pain.  You have to work up gradually to the right dose and we’re not there yet.  

The red heels have come off.  I sit by her bed and help her drink from a drinker, the kind my children had as toddlers.

This, now, is reality.  Fiction?  That’s just escapism.  But what a welcome escape it can be.

Why I write

Posted in Family life, Writing by
One Night at the Jacaranda

First cover of my novel

Not being George Orwell, I can only tell you why I wrote this book.

Every writer wants to produce the kind of thing they love to read themselves. I’ve read a lot of great authors, so I had in mind a contemporary novel with flawed characters, dialogue that rings true, a sense of place, and a terrific story-line to pull it all together.

That may well be how I wrote it, but it’s not why.

It began on a plane as my eldest son and I headed for Princeton and my father’s funeral.  The 7-hour journey to Newark gave us plenty of time to talk.

Most families are complicated.  My father moved out when I was about four.  Although my earliest memories go back to my second birthday, all I remembered of my Daddy was trailing around my mother in the too-large flat and asking where he was. “Heliopolis” she said.

Just recently I looked through an ancient photo album.  It was a jolt to see evidence of the three of us together, Mum and Dad and myself as a young child.

For years after he left, we had little to do with each other.  It was my grandfather I called Papa.

Then came occasional awkward meetings in Philadelphia or Washington, DC.   The most awkward was an outing to buy a Barbie doll, during which my knicker elastic snapped.

But I was lucky as a teenager and then an adult, because we gradually grew closer despite living on different continents most of the time.  Recently we were seeing each other once or twice a year.  I’d often go over with my children to spend some time in New Jersey with Dad and the wonderful American woman he’d married when I was about 9 (‘stepmother’ is too Grimm a word).

On flight CO19 Julian and I reminisced.  Dad was the archetypal Brit in the USA. Despite having settled there decades before, he was still sustained by Tommy Cooper videos and Harrogate toffees that played havoc with his dentures.

His death was hardly premature, but his last years had been tough, with serious lung disease, spinal stenosis, and a heart attack that made his heart stop twice.

Julian and I talked about the little oxygen cylinder that came with him everywhere.  His reluctance to use a disabled badge.  His marvel at the benefits of knee exercises (most of my patients hardly bother with them, but Dad was meticulous about his quads regime).  His impatience with politics both sides of the Atlantic, yet his infinite patience in his volunteer work for Centurion Ministries, which absorbed him after he retired from decades in life insurance.

At some point Julian slept and I got a gin and tonic.  That’s when I started jotting things down on the napkin.  Then I asked for another napkin.  Julian stirred and wanted to know what I was writing. “Notes for an article” I said, unsure what I had in mind.

The notes developed into a plot about a motley group of singletons (there’s more on the Books page). They are all, not surprisingly, trying to find someone special.  I know I was.

I scribbled some more, and a novel developed.   The story has nothing to do with my father. Except for this one thing: he’d always wanted to be a writer.  When he read my first (non-fiction) book, he never said he was proud of me, but he did say it was a bit like something he’d once written.

Is One Night at the Jacaranda the kind of book he’d have wanted me to write? Absolutely not.  I think he’d choke on a toffee if he read it.

dad and IPS For the curious, Centurion Ministries is an investigative agency with no religious affiliation. Its mission is to free from prison those innocent individuals who had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the crimes for which they were convicted and sentenced to either life or death.

The Rise and Fall of the Selfie

Posted in Family life by

selfie
Pronunciation: /ˈsɛlfi/.  Noun (plural selfies). Informal
a photograph that one has taken of oneself, typically one taken with a smartphone or webcam and uploaded to a social media website.”

‘Selfie’ has been named word of the year by Oxford Dictionaries Online. And no wonder. Anyone who’s anyone is taking selfies, and a whole lot of nobodies are too.

Originally ‘selfie’ came from Oz, the land that brought us barbies, tinnies, dunnies, and ‘dry as a dead dingo’s donger.’   But the point was, did I want to be left behind by the rest of the world?  By Rihanna, the Pope and the Obamas?  Too right I didn’t.  So here are my selfies.

Me getting ready to go out: getting ready to go out

OK, that wasn’t great.  I had another go.

getting ready

Maybe next time I’ll get my whole head in.  Me at the gym.

at the gym

You didn’t think I would actually go inside, did you?

Frankly the cat could have done better.  And promptly did.

kitty's selfie

See, my problem is that my phone doesn’t have a mirror.  Maybe I need one of those little makeup mirrors that you can stick up on surfaces like the kitchen cupboard.  Much loved in the 60s, they helped the suburban housewife remain perfectly coiffed at all times, even when slaving over a hot stove.

Before you ask, my phone doesn’t have a forward-facing camera.  It’s the kind of phone that makes my sons double up with laughter and give themselves hernias.

Perhaps what I need for the perfect selfie is a kind of stand in front of my face to position the phone.  Of course I wouldn’t be able to see where I was going, but at least I’d get some great selfies of tumbling arse over tit.

Luckily Oxford Dictionaries Online doesn’t just define ‘selfie’.  It tells us what to do

occasional selfies are acceptable, but posting a new picture of yourself every day isn’t necessary.”

I think that’s my cue to bow out gracefully.  I’m middle-aged now, so even by my mother’s admission I’m practically an adult.

So long, selfie.  I’m going to use my phone for its original intention.  As an alarm clock.  And a torch so I can see my way to the loo in the night.

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A Week to Remember in the Surgery

“An alcoholic is someone who drinks more than his doctor” thinks Geoff as he attacks the second bottle of red.  This isn’t going to help, but it’s Friday and, let’s face it, it’s been a bit of a week.  He waits for the microwave to do its thing with dinner.

Geoff is a family doctor in suburban London, or he would be if he were real.  As it is, he’s just a figment of my imagination.  At 38, he’s divorced and already worn out.

On Monday, Geoff had. expected a two-minute silence but nobody had read the memo.  “Was there a memo?” says the practice manager.  It was a mystery how the staff always take note of the senior partner’s memos though.

His colleagues in the practice think losing two minutes at 11am would be completely out of order.  Especially when Remembrance Day falls on a Monday.  Especially when there are targets to meet, hoops to jump through.

crumpled poppyThe practice nurse is wearing a poppy, now crumpled out of shape and dangling precariously from its pin.  One of the receptionists has one too. The rest don’t bother.

So at the precise moment when Geoff thought he might be standing shoulder to shoulder, if not with all those who serve, then at least with all those who work in the health centre, he’s peering at a patient with spots.

“What can I do for you today?” asks Geoff.  Every doctor knows you never ask what’s wrong today, because patients reply that’s what they came to find out. You don’t ask them what brought them, either. Not unless you want to hear about the 168 bus.

By way of reply, he unzips his flies and whips it out.  That’s where the spots are.  The patient wants antibiotics.  Geoff wants him to get checked out properly.  So he sends him to the Pox Palace, but he uses the correct name instead: sexual health clinic.

On Wednesday the computer database is down.  Turns out it’s a national outage.  “National outrage, more like” fumes Geoff.  Still, he likes idea of free-range consulting.  He can look people in the eye and do proper medicine instead of being fixated on the computer screen.  Funny how much easier it is to listen when you’re not at the mercy of stupid pop-up menus ordering you to ask if they’re depressed, check their medications, and offer a change of contraception.

But by the time the computer’s back on at 11.30am, he’s accumulated pages of illegible patient notes and 20 patients who really need to be seen again.

It’s late on Friday when Geoff finally leaves. He sees that the wall by the No Smoking sign outside the health centre has been used to stub out cigarettes. And he can guess which patients did it.  He goes and scrubs it, because nobody else will.

Now it looks like this.small dirty wall

Surely that entitles him to a bonus glass of wine or two.

 

Alcohol abuse is common in doctors but the expression ‘drunken sailor’ has a lot of truth in it.

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Finding a Man: the Sure-Fire 5-Point Plan (part two)

Posted in Dating by

“Get yourself out there” says Rose. “I’ll babysit.”

So far, Karen’s sure-fire dating plan has failed to produce a suitable man (or, as her friend Rose points out, any man at all).

Just to explain, Karen is a mum of four who normally lives between the pages of my novel.  Any mother who’s newly single knows her predicament: lack of time, money, and a decent man.

“You’ve got to leave your comfort zone.  Open some doors.  Go where the fellas are.” Rose hands out wisdom along with a cup of tea.open doorway

Karen hopes that won’t mean betting shops or football matches.  Car maintenance classes might work, especially given the state of her Toyota, but she isn’t sure how attractive she’d be wearing overalls and Castrol GTX.

The gym, of course!  Then she thinks of her shapeless boobs, wobbly thighs, and a bladder that might not stand up to 5 minutes on the cross-trainer.   She’s after male interest, not abject pity. 

“I heard about this mingle” says Rose.   It’s at a large London library, apparently.  Karen likes books though she’s not sure how many she’s finished since her kids arrived.

On the night, she puts on a Primark dress and tucks a paperback into her bag.  You’re meant to take a book to swap at the mingle.  The Women’s Room will do nicely. Karen doesn’t need reminding that shit and string beans take over your mind.

When she arrives, there seem to be about 60 people there already.  She’d have got there earlier, only four-year old Edward decided to pull his big sister’s phone to pieces to see how it worked.

Karen puts her Marilyn French on a table.  It joins Sartre, Sebastian Faulks, CJ Sansom, Stephen Hawking and Dickens.

Everyone is offered a piece of paper out of a hat. library hat

Seems there’s a different hat for men.   Karen unfolds her paper. Lady Hamilton.  There’s no guarantee she’ll get it on with Lord Nelson, but a free glass of wine is on offer for those who find their missing half.

That’s why people are circulating, talking books, music, folding bicycles and other singleton stuff.

“I got cheap tickets.  Great production.”

“Goes right past the dome of St Paul’s.”

“Yeah, but you feel miles better next day.”

Nobody seems to be fretting about their offspring.    A white-haired man bumps into Karen.  “Are you Heloise?”

She’s not, so off he goes.  She watches him as he weaves his way through the crowd, his desperation increasing as woman after woman shakes her head.

An incredibly tall man bends down double and starts talking to her.   He’s Tristan, not Lord Nelson.  He spends two minutes asking Karen about her job (none at the moment) then wanders off to track down Isolde.

Sometimes it’s tough to be optimistic without wine.   Karen buys a large glass of red but it doesn’t make her feel any better.

Romeo and Juliet have already found each other..  Now they’re comparing notes on their daily commutes.

The white-haired man comes back to check she’s not Heloise.   He looks crestfallen when Karen says she’s Lady Hamilton.   There’s no sign of Lord Nelson.   Posh is deep in conversation with Becks.   Fred is with Wilma, and Napoleon, who’s an Aussie, is describing his fitness regime to Josephine.

Nobody has talked to Karen since Abelard.  It’s all very well leaving your comfort zone, but intense discomfort is counter-productive.

She finishes her drink and leaves early, grabbing a book from the Swap Table on her way out.  What’s so wrong with The Women’s Room anyway?

***

‘When your body has to deal all day with shit and string beans, your mind does too’, said Marilyn French in her debut novel The Women’s Room.  See Valli’s Book Den http://srivallip.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/the-women-room-by-marilyn-french.html

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Finding a Man: the Sure-Fire 5-Point Plan

Posted in Dating, Family life, Writing by

You’ve got to be organized, especially when you’re a single mum with four kids.  Karen’s good at lists.  Most of them look like this.

RSPCA memo pad

Karen is a character from my forthcoming novel, but if you have kids you probably know her. Her latest list is a plan.  A sure-fire 5-point plan to find herself a man.  Here goes:

1.  Be optimistic

2.  Look great at all times

3.  Network

4.  Go where the men are

5.  Leave comfort zone

OK, so she hasn’t met anyone since Tom moved out six months, but it shouldn’t be rocket science. After all, she used to be in HR.  She’ll get her man.

Point 1:  easy.  Karen’s always upbeat.  Her motto is ‘It’ll be fine’.  It’s simple, easy, and versatile.  It can be shouted when your 8-year old’s team is 7-0 down, as was the case last Sunday. Which sort of worked, because Damon didn’t let in any more goals after that.

All may not be fine, Karen admits, unless she implements 2 Look great at all times.  She learnt that lesson trying to flirt at the recycling centre when she looked like one of the totters.  Now she brushes her hair, applies lippy, and wears matching shoes even if she’s only doing the school run.  The other morning Charlotte watched critically from the doorway (she’s 10. Critical’s what she does).

“Mummy, why do you need mascara and blusher just to go to the bank?”

“You never know, sweetheart.  Suppose I run into Harry Potter in the high street?”

Karen has a new get-up too.  It’s for everyday wear, instead of the joggers that are only suitable for the garden, ideally on the compost heap.  She hadn’t been looking for new clothes, but she was in Sainsbury’s walking down the wrong aisle, which had a lot in common with her wedding.  Unlike her ex-husband, it was 25% off and came with double Nectar points.  

Sainsbury's signThe top isn’t quite the right size, but Karen fixes that in no time.  If she doesn’t raise her arms, nobody will even notice the staples.

On to point 3: Network.  Not so much using LinkedIn as mining existing contacts.  Surely somewhere there’s a friend of a friend who knows a single guy who isn’t an axe-murderer.  Karen doesn’t have the nerve to ask every mum at the school gates if they have a brother or a discarded husband/lover/toyboy, but she drops a few hints.

The outcome is the dinner party from hell, with single bachelordom represented by a monosyllabic quantity surveyor with personal hygiene issues.  Her hosts aren’t speaking to each other, which makes the evening as fun as a conference of Trappist monks.  The dinner is a roast and the meat wasn’t local.  Karen chews in dutiful silence, trying not to think of live lambs trapped for hours in an overcrowded container lorry.

Karen describes the evening to her best friend Rose.

“That’s no use” says Rose.  “You’ve got to go where the real men are.”

Karen recalls a teenage pastime.  “What, like hanging around the barracks and hoping to pick up a squaddie?”

“No, silly.   You’ve got a car.  And you like books, don’t you?”  Rose has a couple of suggestions.bookshelf

Coming soon: what happened when Karen left her comfort zone.

Meanwhile here’s one of dating blogs Karen has been reading http://www.nerve.com/advice

If her kids are still up, she looks at this site instead http://www.nectar.com

Marital Battle in the Bathroom

Posted in Marriage by

As writers know, the bathroom is a great place for ideas.  Inspiration is more likely to strike when you’re reclining in a warm bath than when sitting facing a blank screen.

While soaking today, I vaguely contemplate the Poppy Appeal, and how achingly suitable the poppy is as a symbol of conflicts from Flanders to Afghanistan, but the brain cells aren’t exactly working overtime.

What’s this I see?  A little green ceramic dish on the edge of the basin. ramekin dishI mentioned it to my other half two weeks ago, and it’s still there, where anyone could easily elbow it off when reaching for a toothbrush, sending it crashing down onto the floor tiles.  Or, God forbid, the hurtling ramekin dish (for that is what it is) could concuss the cat as she crouches in her litter tray.

But does he listen?  Does he heck!  Still, only to be expected when we’ve been married this long (nearly three months, since you ask).  I don’t listen to him either, allegedly.  That is why I keep putting the toilet roll the wrong way round, and always leave my undies near the laundry basket.  Not in it, obviously.  Just next to it (allegedly).  Plus I drape my bra from the taps, which looks like a skinned rabbit and is beyond annoying to someone wanting a bath.   braI fire right back.  He always has the radio on, full blast.  Does he not realise that some of us like peace and quiet?  I neither need nor want aural wallpaper.  And another thing.  Why do we have to have all six bathroom lights on?  OK, a guy might need decent lighting to avoid amputating his Adam’s apple while shaving, but it seems a bit over the top to require 360 watts just to brush teeth.

Then it dawns.  Here we are approaching the annual Poppy Appeal, and, instead of battles like Passchendaele, El Alamein and Goose Green coming to mind, we’re having a ding-dong in the bathroom.  poppiesThe postscript is that peace has broken out in the flat.  We’re not arguing about the toothpaste tube, or the toilet paper that’s the wrong way round (by which he means the right way round, obviously).  The skirmish over the laundry is over, and even the ramekin dish has been moved before the cat had a head injury.

If you’ve read this far, please visit www.britishlegion.org.uk

While you’re there, you might also be interested in the RBL Centre for Blast Injury Studies (CBIS) at Imperial College, London, where academics and military experts work together to better understand and reduce the effects of injury on the human body.   Here’s AnUBIS, one of their research tools.  anubis cropped and big credithttp://www.britishlegion.org.uk/news-events/new-initiatives/centre-for-blast-injury-studies#

Thank you.

Where on earth can you meet someone?

Posted in Dating by

When you’re 30-something, it’s tough to meet people.  I know a couple who met on an allotment, but, when I tried growing vegetables, all I pulled was a bunch of deformed carrots.

Laura has a similar problem.  At uni, men were young, plentiful and persistent.  Now it’s a different story.

She dreams she’ll randomly meet a hot guy while out shopping.  He’ll have eyes like molten chocolate and a French name like Yves.  They’ll swap phone numbers and then – well, the rest will be in soft-focus.   shoppingIn point of fact, the only time she spotted anyone attractive in a shop, she up-ended her handbag in the aisle.  Instead of helping her collect coins and tampons off the floor while begging for her number, the guy turned away and carried on studying tea-bag prices.

Back to dating websites then.  Where she’s 34, called Emma, pretends she’s not a lawyer, and gives a fake phone number.  It’s a pay-as-you-go mobile she can easily discard.  All those phoney layers will have to come off if (or when?) when she meets someone nice.  She’ll cross that bridge when she gets to it.

Geoff is another character out of my forthcoming novel.  He’s a newly divorced doctor, and the nice pay packet no longer makes up for sky-rocketing patient demand and new government diktats every other day.  During his years working in hospitals, women threw themselves at him, and academic awards came equally fast and thick.  stethoscopeBut he’s been a GP for over 10 years now, and the sea is remarkably empty of fish.  GMC guidelines forbid relationships with patients, and he doesn’t fancy the new receptionist, even if the patients adore her.   Plus there’s a new problem now.  He can’t perform as he once did.

Geoff returns the call to the nursing home.  Bad news: 94-year old Mrs Montgomery fell out of bed again so he’ll have to visit.  She seems fine, they say, but as always the staff want to ‘cover’ themselves.

Get yourselves a duvet, thinks Geoff as he gets into his car.

Karen, now.  Men haven’t exactly been beating a path to her dilapidated front door.  No, her best friend tells her, the meter reader doesn’t count.

Newly single, Karen has 4 children and no job.  She’s still confident she’ll meet someone eventually, even if all the evidence so far is against it.

After a clear-out, today she’s headed for the recycling centre.  It’s on her way to the hairdresser’s for a much overdue appointment, via the shoe repairers and the bank.  Why spend more on petrol than you have to?  Karen doesn’t obsess about her appearance, especially when she’s busy cramming her clapped-out Toyota with bags of garden refuse, broken toys, mouldy trainers, 994-piece puzzles, and clothes that her kids have worn to death.recyclingParking her car in front of the containers, she notices a man in a green T-shirt unloading a wardrobe from the back of his estate car.  Nice buns.

He turns to face her.  It’s a Nike T-shirt, and more to the point he has a great smile.  She makes eye contact and returns the smile with a Hi, ready to talk about the wardrobe, or anything really.

He clocks her, but his smile promptly fades.  In fact he hot-foots it back to his car, driving off a lot faster than the 5 mph limit.

When she gets to the hairdresser’s, Karen is ashamed to see in the mirror just how bad her roots have got, how much garden rubbish she has on her sweatshirt and, in short, how bad she looks.

Michael knows exactly where to meet women.  After all, he’s an accountant, so he’s got it planned down to the last detail.  That’s how he does everything, even watching porn.

More to come in my novel on dating. Meanwhile why not take a moment to share your experience of meeting people? I’d love to hear your tips too.