A couple of days ago on a cloudless Friday, I had a little chat with a colleague about any and everything. I don't remember much of what was said − I guess we were just making conversation to make the cigarette-break more bearable. However, a wee bit of it stuck out like a Kenyan in China.

I remember, almost lamenting, telling him that I didn't have much to do on that Friday, and that I was therefore going home. He released the smoke that was caged in his lungs and said, "Well, that means you have a life." We said out goodbyes and I later set out for home.

I sat in a taxi trying to make sense of what he'd said. He was half-right, I gathered. Have you ever made that excited phone call to a mate and proposed that going out that night would be the grandest of all ideas? And have you ever hung your head along with your phone, downhearted after the call?

I was disappointed that Plan A, which was having a laugh with my favourite mate over a few rounds of lager had now gone to the shitter. The alternative, Plan B, meant linking up with estranged folks. No thanks, I'd rather have bouts of comfortable silence. There is and always was 'C', go home.

A friend of mine, E.T (He's out of this world), usually turns me down when I invite him to join me for a drink or two. He always has the same response, "Nah, my wife is coming over."

Home is where the heart is, they say. What I took away from my colleague's wisdom was that, if you're going home, you're not necessarily lonely. Lonely people are the ones who try to find excitement outside of themselves. They try to fill their lonesomeness with scores of rampant buzz. They try to generate some of that buzz with hope that other forlorn individuals will come join them at the table of the wanting. Misery needs company, they say.

A lot of out-goers think they're kewl when they're out and about. And why wouldn't they be? They'd pimp themselves in conversation: They'd be Mister or Miss Current Affairs adorned in the finest fashion and speaking in jargon about music, books, politics or technology.

They'd seek out these culture clubs and subcultures, which by definition are rather ironic.

My point is, they're selling themselves to the next lonely person. Be it their intelligence or plain old primitive placid poise.

As an aside, I am tired of anticipating something really awesome to happen that would make my night memorable.

Meanwhile, back at the Ranch... You might be bored to your wit's end, but boredom is a far cry from lonesomeness. When you're home, that's it. There is no buzz, no one eclipsing you with their cool, no subcultures and their queer cant − none of that. You're home. You could listen to your most treasured music, read a few chapters on politics, or maybe even watch BBC Click. This could all be social munition for when you absolutely need to get out of the house.

I want to stay home more, and spend the whole day in pajamas and channel-hop instead of club-hopping. Home is, after all, where the heart is.