A week of two birthdays, mine (very old) and Billie (16).
We went to the cinema to see 'The Avengers' or as it's called succinctly in the UK, 'Marvels Avengers Assemble' in case some forty something twit expected John Steed to save the day, I imagine.
Two of my cinematic pet hates reared their heads. First the quality of digital projection, at least in my local multiplex, is dreadful. Whites are uneven and flicker like a rear projector TV from the 1980s, and focus is , well unfocused, fuzzy edges a go-go. I understand screens are now automated so there isn't even a projectionist to shout at, but frankly my projector at home gives a better picture (not hyperbole, this is almost certainly true).
Secondly in the next but one seat was 3 year old boy!(accompanied by young Mum, who looked exactly as I imagine you think she looked). I can understand how a 3 year old would love superheroes, but the film is a 12A for goodness sake. The first 40 minutes or so are almost all scene setting, very little action. He spent ALL of this time banging the empty seat between us and asking what was going on, very loudly of course. I don't get out much, and it was my birthday, needless to say I was a little peeved. Being an uptight middle aged man , this only manifested itself as body language and deep sighs. We even exchanged a few heated (about 8 degrees I imagine) words. She accused Billie and I of moaning, and I pointed out the strange logic of bringing a child to a film he was not cognitively developed enough to understand. after a few uncomfortable minutes, they got up to go to the toilet, and never came back. How Strange!

Anyway the film itself was entertaining enough to make me forget the technical issues. Even Billie enjoyed it. The whole world has reviewed this film so you don't need to hear me saying essentially the same thing.

Then came a week of night shift, one of my personal bête noire. Somehow it passed, 'nuff said (one for the Marvel fans there).

Last night was Billies surprise party, which somehow I'd managed to not blab about all these many weeks ( I was invited and also I designed the invitation, which, it transpires, was never used!). From the outset I fully intended to not go, and informed my ex-wife thusly. Then at work, at around 4am, I realised that the only thing stopping me was my social awkwardness, ie meeting my ex-wife avec entourage.
It would be my daughters only 16th surprise party, like ever! So missing it would make me not only a coward but a very bad father.
So I went.
After an awkward hour of avoiding eye contact, and stepping out of the way of marauding drunken 16 year old girls, Billie finally arrived (after three or four tumultuous but bogus arrival announcements).
I promptly burst into tears, hugged her, came back round for another hug, and went home.
I know that sounds odd, but I had one supremely emotional moment with Billie, and she had an evening of dancing ahead of her, so we both won.

Going out is getting to be a real problem for me.
I'm far from fond of my physical self, and combined with rusty, nay homoeopathic social skills (so diluted so as to not bloody exist anymore), an often overpowering desire to be alone, and my, er, 'unique' outlook, it's never going to get easier. most of the time I couldn't care less, but every now and then...