On Tuesday this week, a friend I haven't seen in half a decade was visiting town and got in touch to suggest we grab dinner. He also asked if I was aware of any "folk or trad music night worth checking out – I could bring my mandolin?".

Some googling revealed that there was indeed a "session" (as these things are known) happening in a pub in town on the night he was visiting. I brought my guitar to the office that day, and we met up for food before heading over to the pub.

I had no idea what to expect – in essence, this was a meetup where folk music aficionados show up to a pub with instruments, and sing traditional songs in a communal atmosphere. But when I asked my pal whether there were any unwritten rules, he pondered for a second, then said "it depends – some trad Irish groups might kick us out if we played something by U2". Fair enough, really.

When I was 11 years old, my dad decided to take me fishing. I remember it being a process accompanied by substantial paperwork: we had to go to the local Post Office to purchase my "fishing licence" which would prevent angry bailiffs from insisting we leave the pond.

I still don't know what prompted him to take a near-teenager with him on a fishing trip. We had to get up at 5am—apparently to catch the early-rising fish—and carry a significant amount of equipment, warm clothing, food supplies and other accessories before we could sit down and actually start fishing. Teenagers aren't famed for their attention spans or tolerance of boredom: maybe my dad was just a glutton for punishment.

I'm now near the age my dad was when he used to take me on these early morning trips and I think I understand a little better: there was a peace and tranquility to those secluded ponds that he didn't get much of back home with three kids and a busy job to juggle. Once we'd baited the lines and cast our floats to sit wobbling on the pond surface, we'd sit back in chilly silence (the weather, not our relationship) and fix our eyes lazily on the bright orange tips sticking out of the water. Any attempts I made at conversation were gently hushed as he cautioned me to avoid disturbing the fish.

You can tell a lot about me by the state of my beard.

I've worn facial hair since my mid-teens, ever since my maths teacher commented on my "bum fluff moustache" when I was 14 and struggling to establish myself as a cool, stylish young man (his comments didn't help). My dad claims to have been "born with his moustache", so I'm from a long line of hirsute gentlemen. I remember bouncers waving me into bars and clubs in my late teens while my friends were being asked for ID, saying "he's got a beard, let him in".

I've only shaved it all off a handful of times, and none of them have been great occasions:

The ill-judged "monk" graduation restyle

I had half an hour to kill yesterday before a post-work event started, so I popped to a favourite quiet bar for a cheeky pint before it started. It's a real ale specialist pub so it's usually full of middle-aged men asking to sample half a dozen types of bitters with names like Wenlock's Shotgun or Half A Bob Mild.

I'd come in to read a magazine in peace and settled down to a corner table with my beer. Opposite me was another guy about my age doing almost exactly the same thing, a book nestled on the table as he got up for another pint.

To my right was a middle-aged couple finishing their drinks. They stood up and the woman announced she needed the bathroom. The man looked over at the bar to read the code number needed to access the toilets. "6-8-7-1" he read back to her. "68, the year I was born" she mused back. "And then 7, the number of men you've slept with!", the man leered back at her. They were standing so close to my table that he had to have said it for me to hear, especially the volume he boomed it at. She laughed it off and they made their way to the exit.

My name is Matt and I'm addicted to watching YouTube video series about men making new lives for themselves on canal boats.

I don't know exactly how or when this addiction started. I remember late one night, perhaps during a covid lockdown, browsing the Amazon Prime Video listings to find something, anything that was new and unchallenging. The days and weeks were long and intense, and you switched on the TV for an escape at the end of the evening.

I ended up watching a whole season of "Britain by Narrowboat", which documents the journey of two men who sell their house and quit their jobs in order to become canal-based vloggers. The show tagline describes the premise as "a last-ditch attempt to save his mental health", referring to one half of the couple (who indeed experiences a breakdown while aboard his vessel).