Never go to the pub with your coworkers. For a bit of relaxing after a day of hell, all right, yeah, but not to get properly shitfaced. Someone is bound to get chatty, and someone is bound to get maudlin, and if you're very lucky they're one and the same and then you get spend your whole evening listening to incoherent sob stories from World War Two, not to name names here. And once he's wound down, you've got everyone privately reflecting on their own personal sob story, because let's face it, we've all got one. Or twenty.
The upside and the downside to this is that Tink's method of dealing with anything bothering her is generally to punch someone, or at least to go on a rant about how much she wants to punch someone, which provides a convenient distraction from the space between your own ears. Now there's a lesson from hindsight for you: when you go to the pub, always make sure to bring the girls along. Drunk women dance on tables, or rant, and have you ever seen a psychic get thoroughly pissed? Either very, very fun or very, very never going to talk about it in public again. But there's not much sadder than three old men at a table thinking about the old war days. Different wars, mind. But the stories stay the same.
And in the morning, after all the stories and the moaning and the whining about the mistakes of the past, what've you got? A headache, generally. Been my experience that's all that ever comes of thinking too much on what can't be changed.