This article was originally published in the New Humanist.
It’s late summer and the afternoon sun is beating off Shoreditch’s sheer glass facades and gum-littered pavements. My colleagues and I are en route to a “secret location” for our end-of-summer party, anticipating a space to socialise and soak up the last of the year’s warmth. We arrive, and a set of metal doors off the high street quickly dash these hopes. Natural light and the white noise of London’s traffic give way to pulsating music and darkness punctuated by bright colours. Dazed, we wander into the venue and are greeted by a stern-looking bouncer with a thick neck, his arms crossed. He’s guarding the entrance to a ball pit populated by a group of clamorous 20-somethings.
