All around us is a hidden Britain. Many hidden Britains, overlapping and interleaving and interweaving yet simultaneously parallel and orthogonal and distinct. Hidden, or rather invisible. Every day, hundreds of clubs, teams, gatherings of friends, are getting together for events, meetings, matches, cakes, chats. Things. Get pregnant and you'll suddenly discover a network of baby groups, cots going spare, coffee mornings, parent and baby yoga, splash-babes, shops you never noticed before, farm parks to which you were previously blind, undiscovered play centres. Wander into a sports club or even just a pub with a dart board, and you'll tap into previously unknown network of playing fields, club houses, leagues, competitions, and so on that existed all around you, all the time, but you which never noticed before because you weren't attuned to them. Years ago, when m'chum Pete and I were younger and keener and more naive than today, we tried to estimate how many people were making there own comics and magazines, extrapolating from the people we knew and the people they knew and so on. From an initial estimate of a bit above a hundred, we moved up and up, until we realised there really was no upper limit. Right now, your next-door neighbour could be printing off issues of the science fiction poetry anthology they edit and you would never know.
Society. It's everywhere.