After being on your feet seven hours in motion making things happen the last people, inevitably friends of yours, start with the 'why don't you join us.' Hunger and exasperation and a feeling of being trapped before watching eyes following your movements have set in. You do your best to ignore them and go about restocking, counting the drawer, cleaning. They are celebrating, in happy tipsy moods. And it's your own fault, letting their expectations get so, for being a 'nice guy,' for the ambiguities of friendship. "We're not keeping we you, are we? It's okay if you want to go home." Well, take the hint. But then with that thought, you try and recover, ask a polite question, then fade again and think about how good the tuna salad sandwich in the fridge in a plastic bag might taste just now if you were left alone to enjoy it.

So you'll attempt a glass of wine, not really wanting it, knowing it's not going to really make you feel any better, that it will just lead to waking in the middle of the night, laziness and a form of irritated depression the next day. And helpfully, you will ignore them as much as you can, and go about the duties of the end of a night. And then get the bicycle up out of the basement and finally herd them out into the night.

You get home, eat your sandwich, do the dishes, and have two Guinness in front of the television before finally turning in. American Masters on Harper Lee.

Now of course I'm probably over-reacting, and maybe taking other people to task for my own worst behavior. I'm probably reacting to my own false personality as it threatens to take over my life. Is that what happens in our jobs until we finally get disgusted with ourselves? Hopefully there is still a real self left!