Why I always prepare three talking points before any networking event

I've walked into hundreds of rooms over the past two decades. Awards ceremonies in London, charity lunches in Surrey, industry panels in Manchester, and one unforgettable evening in a tiny Glasgow studio where the air conditioning failed and we all bonded through sheer perspiration. The settings change, the wine list changes, the faces change, but one habit has stayed with me since I first started hosting live television: I never enter a room without three talking points tucked into my mind.

I learned this the hard way. Early in my career I would drift into events convinced that charm and a few glasses of prosecco would carry me through. Sometimes it did. Often it didn't. There is a particular kind of dread that arrives when someone turns to you, eyebrows politely raised, and you realise you have absolutely nothing of substance to say about yourself, your work, or why you're there. Three pre-prepared points give me a private safety net. They are short, memorable, and flexible enough to bend to whatever direction a conversation takes.

The blank wall at the back of the room

Most people, if they are truthful, find the first ninety seconds of any networking encounter a bit grim. You shake a hand, you smile, you say something like "so, what brings you here tonight?", and the other person delivers a perfectly adequate response that you then have to do something with. That is where the panic usually starts. The room is loud, the canapés are already circulating, and you can feel the seconds ticking down before one of you gets rescued by a passing colleague.

When I worked in breakfast television, every interview had to land in under four minutes. The same logic applies to a crowded networking event, where every exchange is essentially a short interview. If you have three points prepared, you can pick the right one for whoever is standing in front of you. The finance director wants to hear about resilience. The founder of a small start-up wants to hear about reinvention. The person simply looking for a chat wants to hear something warm and human. The points act like a small toolkit you can dip into without rummaging.

I remember one Melbourne event, a breakfast roundtable in a glass-walled room overlooking the Yarra, where I used exactly this approach. A woman who ran a wildlife conservation charity asked what I did beyond television. Out came point number two: my work with women's empowerment programmes. We sketched out a panel idea on a napkin and stayed in touch for two years. None of that would have happened if I'd stood there fumbling for a sentence. Before I went to that one, I had checked my hosting calendar and made a quick note of the charities being supported, which is how I knew to mention wildlife conservation at all.

What the three points actually look like

People sometimes assume my talking points are scripted speeches. They are nothing of the sort. Each one is a single sentence, written on a small card that lives in my bag or jacket pocket. The first point is always about what I do now. The second is about a lesson I have learned. The third is an open invitation, usually phrased as a question.

Point one might read: "I host live television, write books, and speak about resilience." That sentence is broad enough for most professional settings, whether I am in a Sydney boardroom, a Brisbane convention centre, or a Perth fundraiser. Point two might read: "I rebuilt my life twice, and both times the people around me made the difference." That one is for moments when someone needs permission to talk about something difficult. Point three is usually a question like "What is the bravest decision you have made this year?" A question shifts the spotlight away from me and lets the other person reveal themselves.

The beauty of keeping the sentences short is that I can remember them even after a long flight, a dodgy hotel coffee, or the kind of all-day panel that leaves your brain feeling washed. I do not write them out word for word on the night. I rehearse them on the train, in the back of a cab, or while doing my make-up in a dressing room that smells faintly of dry-cleaning fluid and anticipation. By the time I arrive, they are mine.

Tailoring the three to the room

A room full of corporate lawyers needs a different tone to a room full of creatives. Australians, in my experience, are wonderfully direct. They will tell you within thirty seconds whether your opener landed. There is no point trying to be theatrical in that context. They want substance, warmth, and someone who does not waste their arvo with vague filler. So when I am heading to an event in Sydney or Melbourne, I lean my second talking point towards something practical and grounded, like a story about a live broadcast that went sideways.

Tailoring does not mean rewriting the points entirely. It means knowing which one to lead with and which one to hold back. In front of senior executives, I lead with the professional point and save the personal story for later. In front of women in mid-career, I lead with the personal story because that is what they came to hear. The third question stays the same almost everywhere, because people everywhere like to be asked a genuine question by someone who is actually listening.

I also do a small amount of homework before any event that matters. I read the guest list if one is shared. I check LinkedIn for the people I am most likely to meet. I look up the charity being supported that night. This sounds like a lot of effort, but it means I can mention a specific project or shared connection when I introduce myself. That is what turns three talking points into a real conversation. If you want to improve, the work you put into sharpening your skill set beforehand is what makes the evening useful.

The conversations that only happen because you prepared

The real reward of three talking points is not the small talk itself. It is the strange, unexpected doors that swing open when you say something specific. I have been introduced to campaigners, founders, Olympic athletes, and once, memorably, a cattle farmer from out near Dubbo who was determined to talk me through his drought-management strategy over a single glass of red. Each of those meetings started with a sentence I had prepared.

There was an afternoon at the ICC in Sydney where I was due to host a women's leadership panel. My dressing room was full of cables, half-empty coffee cups, and someone else's abandoned salad. I ran through my three points in the mirror, fixed my lipstick, and walked out. Within an hour I had a chat with a woman launching a mentorship programme for teenage girls in Western Sydney, and within two hours we had agreed on a collaboration that ran for eighteen months. It happened because I had a clear answer ready when she asked what I cared about.

The discipline also helps with nerves. Standing outside a packed auditorium, you can feel the hum of a room before you even enter it. Knowing exactly what you are going to say to the first three people takes a layer of anxiety away. Your shoulders drop, your breathing steadies, and you can actually be present rather than performing. People sense that. They lean in.

When the plan goes sideways

I should be honest about the times the three points did not work. There have been events where the audience was colder than expected, where the host forgot to introduce me, or where the schedule collapsed entirely and the room dissolved into something resembling controlled chaos. In those moments, the points can feel rigid. That is why the third one is always a question.

A question buys you time. It gives the other person permission to lead, and it gives you a few seconds to recalibrate. If the prepared points feel wrong for the room, I drop them quietly and listen. Listening, in my experience, is the most underrated skill at any event. Some of my best professional relationships have started with a sentence I did not prepare at all.

I also lean on the people around me. Behind every smooth appearance is a small group who make it possible, and I have written about the value of having a trusted backstage crew you can rely on. My points are the easy part. The hard part is making sure the lighting cues are right, the seating plan is honoured, and my notes have not been left in the back of a taxi. Without the team, the talking points would just be words on a card.

Keeping the habit fresh after all these years

The danger of any routine is that it becomes a script. I have watched presenters who used to be spontaneous turn into walking press releases because they stopped paying attention to the room. To stop that happening to me, I rewrite at least one of my three points every quarter. Sometimes it is a new question. Sometimes it is a fresh story. Sometimes it is a sentence about a project I am genuinely excited about, drawn from my current favourite things list, or a reflection on something I have just read.

The rewrite takes about twenty minutes over a cup of tea. I read back through recent emails, scroll through voice notes, and notice what has been on my mind. Then I redraft one of the points to reflect where I actually am, not where I was six months ago. It is a small act of self-respect. It stops me from sounding like a recording.

Three talking points will not change your life. They will not guarantee you a deal or a new best friend. What they will do is give you a quiet confidence that most people in the room will never see. You will appear calmer, more thoughtful, more present. You will leave events with two or three genuine conversations instead of a stack of business cards and a sore face from smiling. For someone who has built a career out of walking into rooms, that is the difference between an evening that vanishes and one that quietly changes the shape of your week.