Somewhere under the shallow crust of each soul lies a brilliant street photographer waiting to burst forth. Black and white shots of the Barbican. Oh. Loving, minimally captioned (“#ThisIsLondon”) sweeps of the South Bank in the midwinter drizzle. Yes. A three-hour round trip to Thamesmead to get three pictures of an old housing estate (“LifeInZone3.5”). Please. Anyway, get yourself down to Wimbledon for a course on how to actually use that £500 Canon vanity purchase.
You can’t believe it. You don’t want to believe it. But the receipts show it. Yes, another month and another £85 spent on something called MeGa Beef Jerky XXL and Waitrose smoked salmon. There must be another way. Well, Coldsmoking Cookery School runs classes that’ll teach you how to smoke your own grub, differentiate between “hot” and “cold” smoking, how to cure, and eventually hot smoke a trout. You need this.
“The School of Life”. It might sound exactly the sort of thing your ex’s dad has in the “education” bit of his Facebook, but who’s counting? Not us. Not when you can pick from a broad range of classes dealing with complex ideas surrounding morality, how to find fulfilling work, the importance and artfulness of solitude, and the centrality of philosophy and art to the fabric of our lives. Have a gander and find that perfect something to stop the grey matter turning green.
Finally, a chance to join the ranks of the hunched, the wild eyed, and the damned. Yes, you can attempt what your partner swore they would leave you for trying: homebrewing. This is a corker of a course. You get some expert tuition. You faff about trying to morph ideas into practice. You get a belter of a free lunch. And somehow, by some alchemy, you will learn more about yeast that any sane fella should ever know.
In one swoop, two moderately cherished ambitions fulfilled. Not bad going. Firstly, the “eco itch”. Secondly, “Dad finally accepting me as a man, with a real trade and angible adult credentials”. Both scratched, and for £50. Not bad going. Basically, you head up to some woods in Hackney and learn some carpentry rudiments before making your own spoons. Using a real axe. And a real knife. And your very real fear of both these very sharp things.
The skinny-jeaned corpse of 2007 indie is risen and dragging its battered Converse to a venue near you