As a man of a certain age, I've participated in a few of the rituals of manhood: the stag do, the boys' weekend, the silent drinking of beer before a funeral (maybe this is a Merseyside thing?). Here's my take on them.

The stag do

Even the phrase conjures up equal parts fear and excitement. Statistically, at least one attendee is going to end up drunk and humiliated, doing their duty in friendship to become a good anecdote for the wedding day speeches. If you're worried that it might be you, then it's definitely going to be you.

There are two "hard things" in computer science: cache invalidation, and naming things. After years of experience in software engineering I can vouch for the former, but it's the latter which is truly hard.

In the software world, "naming things" can refer to the challenge of coming up with descriptive-yet-succinct titles for things: a software library, a function name, a variable. It's hard because you need to anticipate how these things may develop in future, and how long they'll persist for. Famously, the HTTP referrer header (which tells websites which previous page you came from) is spelled wrong, and every bit of code since its introduction in 1996 has to handle both the correct and incorrect spelling.

Back in the flesh-and-bone world, though, naming things is equally challenging. I've been responsible for the names of at least four bands, two goldfish, several albums/EPs and, er, a couple of children. All of them were agonising decisions.

The kids are obviously the hardest of all: the weight of responsibility sits heavily as you contemplate all the challenges their name may bring them. Does it rhyme with some insidious playground taunt? Do the initials spell out something rude and embarrassing? Is their future Google ranking dominated by an 18th century serial killer they share a name with? There are plenty of pitfalls to avoid here.

Sometimes I find myself digging through my past to figure out who I am in the present. It feels faintly pointless: what can the 37-year-old me learn from my teenage past? I'm a father to two children, with a job, mortgage and partner. My concerns as a 17-year-old were mainly centered around where I could buy cheap guitar strings, and whether I'd ever pluck up the courage to speak to the girl I fancied in my History class (spoiler: I didn't).

I kept a Livejournal for my teenage years and beyond: for those not of the millennial persuasion, this was an early social network centered around personal blogging. I deleted it a decade ago, of course, but kept a backup and recently resurrected it for old times' sake.

It made for embarrassing reading: I had some pretty ill-informed opinions on things like feminism and gender, and despite thinking I was very self-aware and intellectual at the time, I clearly had little interest in or exposure to anything besides myself. I'll forgive teenagers most of these things, but it was still a sobering read.

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.