and who'd have thought it?

With relatives one's not seen in years, and the small children you never knew they had, and closer relatives wondering when you're going to have small children, and feeling it is neither polite, nor the time, nor the place to express your extreme dislike of children. And then the long journey home, alone, to an empty flat, accompanied only by cheap railway red-wine. And the person who doesn't respond to you, and you wonder why not. And the general, maudlin, Sunday night feeling.
It's all shit, isn't it?