I’m at Gordon Ramsay’s Lucky Cat restaurant. My friend’s eyes are rolling to the back of her head. “Oh my COD.” She squeals before we fall into a fit of giggles for no reason other than her highball-induced mispronunciation. We’re having an absolute blast but it’s already 8pm and the main course has only just begun.

“I think we might have to skip dessert if I’m going to be out of here by nine,” I state as she takes another mouthful of her orgasmic blackened cod. She chews it slowly before responding.

“Ok, sounds good. I’ll get a mochi to go”.

We stumble out onto Grosvenor Square.

“Sorry again for being so late, James. I’ll leave earlier for you next month.” she apologises. “We’re going to his other restaurant, right? 1980 or something?”.

“It’s called 1890. Yes! I can’t wait. I’ll book the table for 6pm. We won’t get away with being late for that one though. It just got a Michelin star so it’s going to be busy.”

She promises to be there at 5:45pm.

I don’t have a pet. I don’t have children. I don’t have to be up early the next day. I simply like to be home at least two hours before bedtime, and all my friends respect it.

Things weren’t always that way. I spent decades making excuses, and when I couldn’t get away with them, I’d stay out when I longed to be at home; showered, then on the sofa, winding down with a good book or mindless TV. Following this routine calms both my body and mind. And when it’s time to hit the hay, I drift off in minutes rather than tossing and turning. Back then, nobody understood my ritual, and honestly, even I thought I sounded like a grandparent. My friends also made leaving before them extremely difficult; chanting for “just one more”, or accusing me of “being boring”. At that point in my life, I wanted to stay as far away from that label as possible, so I went with the grain. I stayed out till all the others were ready to call it a night.

But then I grew up. Every year that passes, we care less and less about what others think. Not so much in a way that hurts them, but in a way that’s more transparent. I used to dread when friends talked about destination weddings because that meant I might be getting an invite. I went on many, using up valuable PTO to go and holiday with mostly strangers, doing things I didn’t want to do like paintballing (ouch!) or rehearsal dinners (snooze...). This is when I worked full-time and every day of annual leave was precious. On the contrary, I wouldn’t have (and years later when I eloped, didn’t) expected anyone to travel across the world and drop thousands just to see me put a ring on it. There are plenty of other ways to celebrate love. I instated a rule that I would not RSVP to any more destination weddings. No exceptions. Did I lose any friends? No. Did I have more time and money to go to places I actually wanted to go? Yes.

The rule worked so well that next, I put it towards promoting earlier evenings. I kept telling everyone that I needed to be home at a “reasonable” time for my bedtime ritual, and I was off the hook by around 11pm. Friends got used to seeing me head off first, and the funny thing is I noticed many followed suit. Even the so-called “night owls” admitted they loved starting the evenings earlier as it didn’t screw up their following day. Eventually, 9pm became my sweet spot for retiring home. I loved switching clubs for bars. You can have a conversation in a bar, and sometimes a little boogie if that’s the vibe. No fun lost.

I meet my friends after work in central nowadays, say 5:30pm or 6pm, and for three hours we wine and dine. When weekends roll around, we have the whole daytime at our disposal. For museums, afternoon tea, matinee shows, and the like. I don’t get FOMO since I get plenty of human interaction and enjoy a robust social life during those hours. Of course, there are exceptions. When my DJ friend had his birthday, the invite read 9pm to 2am. I told him in advance I’d stay till midnight before slipping out quietly. Irish exits are great at big events if you let the host know: nobody needs to feel bad and you don’t end up dragging others in the party out the door with you. I often offer to arrive early and help them set up, which gives us extra catch-up time too.

I’m certainly not the only one who is adopting the start-early, end-early social ethos. Burnout culture is among us, and many working folk are overpacking their schedules. Prioritising wellness means quality over quantity. I’d much rather spend three hours with one or two friends sipping from a vintage bottle of Billecart-Salmon than do an all-nighter with randos splashing Smirnoff. I do understand the appeal of the latter. Perhaps because I’m married, the former suits me far, far more.

We just need to be honest with ourselves and the circle we hang out with. People will respect your values if you make them crystal clear, and a rule helps set expectations so disappointment is avoided. Excuses are stressful, and you can only use them so many times.

I spent too long sacrificing my needs when those excuses ran out, but what I didn’t realise was saying no to someone else was, actually, saying yes to myself.