I’ve never seen a doctor about my mental state - I’ve never even told anyone about it before - but I guess a doctor’s opinion would be formed along the lines of me having mild depression. Now, I don’t know whether I have it or not, but I used to be outgoing, I used to enjoy the company of people, and with the thoughts I harbour, I would not put it past this being the doctor’s diagnostic.

Now, even Lyle who I inevitably would have a good time with, struggled to persuade me to come out. Tonight is a one-off, which partly is the reason he is being so generous with the drinks and coke, I think.

The funny thing is; I want to be out, I want to go to the pub and have a drink with my friends, have drunken conversations with strangers where we’ll profess our love to each other over something trivial like our favourite variety of potato (sweet, although technically it’s not a potato, so sue me), but I have no desire or willpower to actually do it by myself. The moment it comes to actually facing people, my heart races and I feel uncomfortable.

It’s a struggle to talk to people even when it is blatantly obvious they are pining for a conversation with me. Sometimes it is even a struggle to just be around people. I’ve purposely diverted my path to the office kitchen into the bathroom when I’ve not even needed the loo because I spotted someone shaking their sachet of freeze-dried stale coffee that they always moan about, because the risk of conversation was too great.

I’ve done this many times and I hate the way I am, but I cannot help it. Even now, surrounded by all these people, the noise of it all was beginning to feel oppressive, and the thought of someone sitting opposite me was a frightening one.

I never used to be like this, just ask Lyle.

‘Got you a double, yeah, you’ve got some catching up to do.’

I glanced at my watch. ‘But it’s only eight.’

‘And that’s pretty much half the night gone.’

We clinked glasses and I took a timid drag of the drink, relived to find it was indeed a vodka and the less intensive kind of coke. Satisfied, I drank deeper.

‘You’ll be wanting a refill then?’ Lyle said, chuckling.

‘What?’

He nodded at my glass. I hadn’t even realised half of it was gone. I licked my teeth, feeling the sugar already beginning to coat them.

‘I had an idea.’

Lyle’s ideas had this way of filling me with dread, like a teapot filling a mug with a special brew.

‘What?’ I said, running scenarios through my head. Most of them involved me passed out slumped on a park bench and Lyle lying in a pool of his own vomit, the night a complete blur. All from past experience, you understand.

Even worse, I imagined having to talk to someone else.

‘Let’s go London. I already checked and there’s a train in 25 minutes. Down these, get to the station; you’re not doing anything tomorrow.’

‘I’ve got that run on at nine.’

‘Oh come on, a run? What’s so special about it?’

The fact that no one tries to talk to me when I’m there, mostly.

"It's round Greenwich park. Isn’t it a bit late to be going up there now?’

‘Mate, come on, you know London doesn’t even get started until 10 at the earliest. We’ll get some drinks round Liverpool Street then we’ll go Shoreditch. Deal?’

It wouldn’t have mattered whether I agreed to the deal or not because Lyle’s drink was already finished and he wasn’t going to listen to any of my meagre, pitiful sporting activity arguments.

‘Fine,’ I relented and finished my drink.

I had a feeling this was going to be a long night.