You book the restaurant and warn the waiter your table’s likely to be the rowdiest and the last to leave. After all, you love your friends, you like your partner – they’re all bound to get on, right?
At 9 pm, you’re in a cab, sitting in stony silence.
‘I don’t know what you see in them,’ your partner says.
I think they’re wondering the same about you, you think. What the hell do I do now?