When I get up to leave Klaudio’s just before midnight, everyone at my table tries to stop me. “Let’s have another drink,” they plead. But I cannot be budged. “Hey,” one of them grabs me by the hand as I edge toward the door, “just a little one!” “No way,” I am firm as I slap their shoulders, “I’ve really got to do something.” “Do you have to write this late at night?” another one makes a sorry face and starts scribbling in the air with his hand. “No way around it,” I scowl in mock determination as I wave everyone around the table goodbye and push the café door open. I decide to write this exchange up only when I reach home. For better or worse, my writing is turning into a handy alibi.