If only I could network in total silence

For many years after I had children, however, I had no choice but to network. I was a freelance editor working from home and no networking meant no work.

The somewhat drastic solution I found to my aversion was to co-found and chair a networking group at my synagogue. The only way I could possibly bring myself to attend something so appalling as a formal networking meeting was to be in charge of it. That way, I had no choice but to turn up.

It was one of those set-ups where at the beginning, everyone takes it in turns to spend 60 seconds introducing themselves.

Some people were running the type of business that made this an easy win. A baker handed out gluten-free cakes; a party entertainer gave a quick balloon-modelling demo; someone even did their one-minute introduction in song - though I don't actually think they were a singer: they were just really good at showing off… which is exactly what you need at these events.

I'm an editor. How was I meant to make that sound interesting and useful? A live editing demonstration? An exposition on the correct use of the semi-colon? It's not exactly obvious.

Fortunately, I had a genuine excuse to quit the group when I decided to return to in-house children's publishing. But this made things even worse. Getting re-established in the industry after so many years away was a huge challenge.

"You have to be visible," said my friend Shoshana. So, last week I set off to a friend's book launch in west London, where I knew there would be lots of useful publishing types.

Everywhere, there were tight-knit groups chatting, nibbling canapés, and looking completely at ease. (Some of them probably weren't at ease at all, of course, but that didn't really help me.)

Stemming a wave of panic, I made myself go up and speak to a couple of women to whom I'd first said hello on the doorstep - making them practically family compared with everyone else in the room.

The two of them were old friends, it turned out - both sassy and acerbic, with a pleasingly filthy sense of humour. I spent the next hour giggling with them in a corner like a teenager, accepting refills of champagne from the roving waiter, and making no attempt whatsoever to talk to anyone else in the room.

Our conversation covered everything from what to do when another mother stalks you in the school playground, to how to recognise an antique Russian samovar. It was great.

I knew from what they did for a living that talking to them was not going to be useful. But it was fun, so I just couldn't bring myself to care.

Of course, it is possible that these women spent the evening desperately trying to work out how to get rid of me so they could go and do some networking themselves - but if so, they were very friendly and charming in the meantime.

On the way home, I ran into an old colleague, someone I'd always liked, at Kings Cross. We had a good chat before going our respective ways. And the irony is that this chance encounter - which allowed me to reconnect with someone who already knew me - almost certainly had more networking potential then anything else that had happened that evening.

Railway stations are clearly an ideal networking location. Another publishing friend was offered her current role by a former colleague she passed on the stairs, on the way into a station toilet. (I don't mean she received the job offer actually on the toilet stairs - but it did happen as a direct consequence of the meeting.)

Maybe if I choose a nice railway station, and sit there, day after day, quietly reading my book, my perfect job will arrive by magic. Provided that I choose a major interchange, there will be a full range of restaurants and shops to fulfil all my practical needs while I'm waiting. Even showers.

So, problem solved. Now: back to the EU.

@susanreuben