There is at the heart of this anger a pang of existential melancholy: we play only peripheral parts in the lives of our friends. They are the chief protagonists of their own dramas; to them, we are merely supporting cast. In the same way that the complexities of a minor character can never be fully explored, we too are reduced in the eyes of those who know us to a handful of clear-cut characteristics as predictable and easily categorised as our dress sense.
