Thursday – to Highgate library with Miss Rhoda and Mr David B for what we think is a free talk on local London history. Which we’re all interested in. It’s billed as “U3A – A Sideways Look At History”. We take the “U3A” to be some kind of module code, like “101” in American colleges.

We walk into a small room upstairs in the library where half a dozen people are sat, not facing one speaker as I’d envisaged, but each other in a circle. In the style of Alcohol Anonymous meetings. It’s also immediately evident that the three of us are the only ones there under 75. We feel outrageously out of place, but being British, we try not to make a fuss and sit down anyway.

The lady in charge starts talking about, – what? All a bit vague. History in general, learning in general. And she talks about what U3A is. Turns out to stand for the University Of The Third Age. Initially I panic, equating this phrase with Scientology or the like. I start to look for an open window to dive out of; first floor or not.

Then it turns out to be an organisation that provides educational classes and discussions for those in the ‘Third Age’; the elderly and the retired. It’s safe to say Rhoda, David and I have some decades to go yet till we qualify. But we still sit there and listen, even though we clearly shouldn’t be there. They haven’t asked us to leave, and we haven’t politely made our excuses and left. Because it’s harder not to. We’ll just sit there and listen, we think. It’s only an hour. We could still learn something.

Because we’re in a circle, I try my best to look directly at the main speaker. Or at my shoes. And I try hard not to look conspicuous. Of course, I stand out like a sore …. six-foot younger man in a suit and bleached, parted hair among seven pensioners arranged in a close circle.

And then she starts to ask us questions. Not only is it not a talk by one person, it is a freestyle discussion group. Which I was really not banking on.

“I wonder what the young men think?” She says, and all eyes turn to myself and David. And I start to think about that open window again.

She asks us about history, learning, and could we please explain how that thing the Internet works? We have suddenly become representatives of everyone young ever. And we’re in our thirties. Though pretty youthful with it, if I say so myself. David B even more so than me.

I stare at my shoes so much, I think they may take out a court injunction on my eyes.

But I can’t get out of it. So I start talking about, oh, everything ever. I ramble in the manner of someone who knows what they’re talking about. About how to teach history to children. About how people learn more when they find out things for themselves, to not be left out of the current consensus. I use the example of The Cutty Sark fire, where thousands suddenly remembered their school trips to the place and hastily refreshed themselves about the ship’s history as a tea clipper, via the Internet and newspapers. Just so they can keep up in pub conversations. And yes, I once again manage to refer to that Tom Sawyer fence-painting scene, because I’m discussing why people do anything of their own volition. And how to use that in education. Like Peter Sellers in Being There, I am a fool who has stumbled upon wisdom. But only because I’m stumbling anyway.

I talk about how I grew up in Gainsborough country, but it took my working at Kenwood House in London, standing all day around some of his best portraits, to really take an interest in the painter’s work and life. How I used the Kenwood staff library to give myself a crash course in Gainsborough purely so I could talk about the paintings to visitors. An organic, useful approach to history and learning.

In fact, I speak for longer than anyone else there. Possibly including the lady in charge. This is my typical group reaction. I either dominate a group, or I shut up and stare at my shoes. I can’t do the give-and-take bit in the middle. I’m very good at giving the impression of someone who knows what they’re talking about. And well, I was asked. Ask me to speak about anything, and you’ll find me hard to shut up. You have been warned.

Some of what I say is – frankly – pretty damn pithy, unusual, pertinent and insightful. Other parts of my rambling are just that. Much like this diary. But I do it with 100% confidence. It has been suggested in the past that I could use this so-called ability to work as a tour guide or even an eccentric college tutor. Well, if I could get paid decently, I would.

Among the chatting about learning, I shut up for long enough to hear one of the older attendees explain why London post codes are numbered that way, apropos of nothing. It’s in alphabetical order of the district. Thus, Angel is N1, Highgate is N6, Wood Green is N22. Never realised that before. So I do learn something.

The hour passes quickly, and leaflets are passed out about how to sign up for the classes we’re obviously not eligible for, as we’re not pensioners. The three of us file out, and head for a drink at the Flask. We decide that the event was more interesting than not. Anything unusual is never a waste of time.

Thing is, this sort of sitcom-like mistake leading to an accidentally inappropriate attendance has happened to me before. At about the age of 16, I worked in an Ipswich bookshop. On one Saturday, I was sent to look after their stall at some kind of schools conference in the area. My boss drove me out there, we set up the stall (books of and about childrens’ literature) in a large hall, and she left me there for the afternoon, to collect me later.

No one bought a single book. It wasn’t that sort of conference after all. What it was was a debate on teaching young children from ethnic minorities, and the state of childrens’ books featuring non-white children as protagonists. Suffice it to say I had zero copies of said books on my stall: just your Narnias, your E Nesbits and your Beatrix Potters.

Chairs were arranged in a huge circle, facing each other. People took their places, papers were given out. All the people there were lady teachers, many from ethnic backgrounds, in their thirties and forties. I was a very white, very 16-year-old boy with spots. The only young person, the only male. I sat sheepishly at my book stall in the corner while they started the meeting.

I couldn’t get away. They couldn’t ignore me.

So they asked me to join the group.

An hour or so later, my boss came to pick me up. I explained what had happened, and why I hadn’t sold anything. She was both mortified and annoyed – clearly there had been a breakdown in communication somewhere along the line. A description of the event which wasn’t quite clear enough.

I can’t remember if I said anything at that meeting. I think I got away with my eyes taking it out on my shoes. I hope.