In 1986, aged 32 and building a career as a statistician in Cambridge, I saw a notice in the local health food shop window, advertising an open meeting of a “Men’s Group”. The notice caught my eye because I was, to be honest, struggling with being a man. I had recently separated from my wife after eight years together and our marriage counselling had uncomfortably shown that my upbringing, although supportive, had given me no training in expressing my feelings, or even knowing what they were. We didn’t argue, as I avoided all confrontation, dreading the late-night remark – “We should talk.” But I didn’t know how to talk, and/or how to listen.
I had become acutely aware of how I was like some creature inside its protective shell, and that I needed to do something about it to avoid history repeating itself in future. A good (female) friend suggested I needed male company, but I was wary. I didn’t have close male friends to confide in, and most of my experience of male conversation had been in the pub and consisted of opinions about “stuff” – my work (which I enjoyed a lot), politics, sport, music, TV – often in competitive banter, each trying to better the previous story.
