A few evenings ago in a bar in a out-of-season seaside town, just south of Rome, three men are standing, animatedly discussing the fresh football season, in a re-run of a discussion they have had on other nights and previous years. Outside, it drizzles yellow tears under silent lampposts.

A few weeks ago, flying for work I sit next to a geezer dressed in a grey suit and monogrammed shirt. He never looks up. His eyes fixed on the board of directors' report he holds in his lap. Something about fruit and distribution channels. Then, as we are about to land, he scribbles with a Mont Blanc pen: "oranges are up, lemons are down".

A few days ago, I leave work early to attend the first teacher-parent meeting at my daughter's nursery school. Out of sixty children, only 20 adults are there. I am the only male.