The Diary: Caroline Daniel - FT.com The editor of FT Weekend takes part in some armchair warfare in London and travels to Edinburgh to hear the collective wisdom of the TED crowd When a friend asks if I am interested in a "staff ride," not being a horse lady, I don't quite know how to respond. But once informed it is an "exercise in tactics, strategy and leadership," used to reimagine battlefield scenarios, I am intrigued. The technique is supposed to help leaders deal with subordinates and intense pressure, and make decisions amid incomplete information. I receive a hefty briefing pack. I am assigned the role of Major General Franklin "Buster" Hagenbeck, commander of Task Force Mountain. We have to familiarise ourselves with our character and Operation Anaconda, an operation in Afghanistan in February 2002 to target al-Qaeda. As an army daughter, I feel relief that I am to channel my inner CO and not the feckless Pashtun warrior. We gather in the Mayfair library of the Legatum Institute, a think-tank that promotes open economies and democracy. Amid croissants and Le Carré novels, it feels a long way from the Shah-i-Kot Valley ("place of kings," in Pashto). We are armchair generals ready to navigate a historic fog of war, sifting valour from military rivalries, poor intelligence from personality clashes. Try to speak in the first person. It helps to have everyone angry at everyone else," says Gary Schmitt, an official from the American Enterprise Institute, intelligence specialist and one of two moderators. An American playwright is cast as General Tommy Franks. Setting the mood, she declares: "I am here to destroy an enemy and deliver a myth." A Welshman invokes as research for his Pashtun character a dust-up with a local Afghan laundryman who stole his washing. Challenged on his battlefield errors, he deadpans: "It depends on what you mean by the word "organised."" I am nervous. I was shy of acting at school. In one unfortunate incident I read Macbeth's mordant line, "He has kill'd me, mother" in such a rush it came out as a northern: "He's killed me mother." I know Hagenbeck only served in combat once, in 1983, so I decide he is impatient for "a piece of the action." Soon, though, it's clear I have missed my calling. I'm dropping military acronyms, pointing my finger accusingly at the air force leaders and opining on the morality of going back to save a soldier. It is tough to go from being a commander to the mundane politics of Operation Office Plan Strategy (OOPS). Now, what would "Buster" have done? The Waitrose Summer party this year is at the British Museum. As we sip champagne, Paloma Faith belts out songs over the hall of retailers, a giant pile of asparagus and a greenly lit tyrannosaurus. I spy Stuart Rose, the former M&S chief executive, now chairman of Ocado. It is a chance to tease him about a text he sent me in which he mistook me for his chauffeur. Bentley parked up. Would you be able to do the run up to xx in the BMW tues? Later that week, I'm across town in a whitewashed Clerkenwell basement for a royal visit. I am there to support my friend Charles Armstrong as he announces plans for a 9,000 sq ft Trampery in Old Street. This is the latest of his collaborative workplaces for start-ups, combining high-tech facilities with a cool retro aesthetic. Ahead of the visit by HRH Duke of York, Charles, who has a penchant for wildly dashing outfits - from silver shoes to 19th-century military jackets - has Instagrammed a picture of himself ironing a lilac shirt. A key guest is Rohan Silva, just in from Shanghai. As David Cameron's architect of Tech City, he shyly receives a round of applause. HRH wades in: "The exciting thing is that you guys are getting on with it without reference to government." Afterwards, I catch up with him talking to Rohan about entrepreneurship. Behind their heads is a deliciously incongruous lurid green sign saying: "Freak Out." Another museum party. This time I am in the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh for the opening party of TEDGlobal, eating strawberry ice-cream with edible pansies. Outside the conference the next morning are signs saying: "Up these stairs to TED. Nearly halfway to spectacular! The first day starts with attendees summing up their lives in six words. It begins badly. One woman declares: "I'm not shy. I was woken this morning with a fire alarm. She embarks on a rambling anecdote before being ushered off-stage, admitting: "I can't count!" Others opt for haiku-esque homilies. Eliminate possessions daily. Uncover yourself daily," and finally, "Oh. My. God. I'm. At. After the first hour and a half I'm feeling manipulated. We have veered from a man drawing "how to make toast," to participating in "massive multi-player thumb wrestling" (when a woman shouts, "Anyone got a spare thumb?"), to a tear-jerking story about a boy who had a stroke who then toddles on to stage to embrace his father. It is emotionally vertiginous. Yet there is no getting off this ride. The next session starts with a reprieve - a man playing a mournfully moving carnyx, a Celtic horn used 1,800 years ago. But then we are into George Papandreou, the former Greek prime minister, recalling the Greek crisis: "We were depicted as ouzo-drinking, Zorba-dancing Greeks." He calls for the restoration of citizen-led democracy in Europe. The ancient Greeks believed in the wisdom of crowds. Yes, but what can I say about the collective wisdom of this TED crowd? At the end of two days and 50 talks, (impressively, 40 per cent are by women) I can barely recall a single anecdote. The knowledge is buried somewhere, laid down in strata that I can excavate later. There are the quirky animations of flying pigs, or of crazed jelly beans singing, "So many dumb ways to die." Beneath that there are the first-person activist tales from the front line - Saudi women drivers to organisers of Beirut marathons. Then there is a layer of mad factoids that I can exploit in pub quizzes - from the number of neurons in a human brain (86bn) to the 20,000 species of bees. I suspect it will take many months to sift the maddening from the meaningful of two days at TED. The writer is editor of FT Weekend