What follows is a partial, anonymised record of Supper №31, reconstructed from memory because phones sleep in the cloakroom. A chef sat next to a patent lawyer. A founder spent the first course convinced she was at the wrong table and the fourth course hiring the person across from her.

Somewhere between courses two and three, the table stopped being nine conversations and became one — a long argument about whether cities can be designed or only edited. Nobody won. Two people stayed to help stack chairs, which is how you know the evening worked.

The seating plan took four hours to write. It always does. That is the agenda nobody sees: not topics, but adjacencies — the quiet bet that this person, next to that one, produces something neither would have said on stage.