A younger wife means that I have to attend parties, something a man of my age should be dodging. Cocoa, slippers and a quiet night watching Midsommer Murders with Oakley, that is what I want on a Saturday evening, not a trip up to London for a party.
At least it will be recognised that I am an older man so I will be offered a seat in the corner where I can fall asleep as the young folk stand, chat and do whatever young folk do. Texting? Drugs? I just don’t know.
The hosts are among the least mad of the friends of the Mrs. That is to say they only fairly left wing and as it happens I like them. I am not sure it is mutual, as among the friends of my wife I sense that I am regarded as a reactionary and grumpy old man. I can think of fewer greater compliments.
But suffice to say I shall tonight be among a cabal of mad lefties who blame everything on Thatcher, bankers, capitalists and the Tories (plus George Bush). Normally on such occasions I find it simplest to feign illness or sleep deprivation and let it all wash over me but occasionally I rise to the bait.
Wish me luck.