How my relationship survived a ‘Jeremy Hunt moment’
After the Foreign Secretary mistakenly called his wife Japanese, six writers share their own mortifying relationship slip-ups
We’ve all done it, haven’t we? Struggled for a moment to remember our beloved’s name or, worse still, called them by the wrong one entirely.
Yet Jeremy Hunt surely reached new echelons of spousal awkwardness this week during a meeting with the Chinese foreign minister, in which he spoke of his “Japanese” wife – who is, in fact, from China. The Foreign Secretary declared the slip-up “a terrible mistake to make” and blamed it on the fact he had been “reflecting in English with the Chinese on a conversation [he] had with them in Japanese”. Lucia Guo or “the long-suffering Mrs H”, to use Hunt’s description of the mother of his three children, has yet to make her feelings known (publicly, at least). Besides, what’s a little faux pas between loved ones?
Here, writers share their worst offences…
Richard Madeley
It was my wedding to Judy in Manchester register office. To her slight consternation, the room we were all gathered in was the same one she had been married in years before to her first husband. “All my family were here then, too,” she whispered to me. “How embarrassing.”
I did my best to reassure her, and the ceremony began. As soon as it was over, Judy’s brother began taking photos. Judy hates having her picture taken and grew uncomfortable. I squeezed her waist and said loudly: “Come on, darling – you’ve done this before.” I meant being photographed together – we were TV co-presenters – but she and everyone else thought I was making a crass reference to her first wedding in that same room.
My speech at the reception included a late addition – an unscripted, grovelling apology.
Celia Walden
I don’t know who decreed that women are in charge of anything gift-related in a marriage, but that kind of responsibility has its hazards. And because I don’t have time to start sourcing clever, personalised gizmos for every birthday, anniversary and Christmas present, I usually just grab a bottle of something from the stash of unopened booze we keep in the kitchen cupboard. Re-gifting’s been destigmatised, right?
This was how I came to (accidentally) re-gift my husband’s precious vintage Armagnac – a Sempé 1965, the year of his birthdate – to a friend of ours on his 40th. And maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if my other half hadn’t had to watch that friend tear off the wrapping paper and tear up with thanks at our gift. “Glad you like it,” my husband croaked – and I wondered why the blood had drained from his face. Only in the cab on the way home did he eventually say: “Of course, you realise that was the vintage bottle I’ve been saving for 15 years.”
Con Coughlin
For the spouse of any author, the highlight of the long and demanding journey to publication is the launch party; the moment when the odyssey can officially be declared at an end.
And this was especially true for Katherine, aka Mrs C, when it came to the publication of my most recent book, Churchill’s First War. Not only had she ploughed her way through three drafts of the manuscript, thereby saving the author from numerous solecisms and typos. She had also conducted vital research, helping to track down the relatives of some of the more obscure participants.
Imagine Katherine’s surprise – perhaps dismay is a better word – when the moment came for the author to give a few words of thanks, and then omitted any mention of his wife’s sterling contribution.
My pathetic excuse was that, in attempting to express my gratitude to the editors, agents and publicists responsible for making the book possible, a public acknowledgement of my loving wife’s own effort simply slipped my mind. But as one distinguished military acquaintance helpfully remarked as I concluded my brief oration: “There are not enough flowers in London to make up for forgetting to mention the memsahib!”
Judith Woods
I vividly recall the mortification of my first proper boyfriend introducing me to his parents. We had met in my first term at Edinburgh University and we were instantly besotted, so much so that he invited me back to his home town of Paisley for a weekend.
My nervousness was off the scale; twice on the walk from the railway station I tried to run away, which wasn’t easy in pointy Goth shoes and hobble skirt. But he reassured me his family would love me every bit as much as he did, and that I was in for a treat because his mother only ever grocery shopped in Marks & Spencer. Somehow, this intel only increased my apprehension.
We got to the house and I was ushered inside. As everyone gathered around, smiling at me, my boyfriend duly announced: “Mum, Dad, this is…”
He had forgotten my name. He stood aghast and stared, wide-eyed at me for inspiration. Unfortunately, I was so traumatised, I had forgotten my name, too. I thought about croaking “Marks & Spencer”, but even that wouldn’t come out.
I dimly recall his lovely mother coming to the rescue eventually – and a tasty M&S salmon en croute very nearly saved the day.
Toby Young
On the morning of our honeymoon, I told Caroline I wanted to drop off my new car at the garage on the way to Heathrow. We were living in a flat in Shepherd’s Bush – this was pregentrification – and I was worried it would get keyed, or worse, if I left it parked outside. She was a little nervous about missing our flight, but I waved her concerns away: “That’s b-------. Don’t worry. I’ve never missed a plane in my life.”
By the time we were standing in front of the check-in desk, it was less than an hour before the plane was due to take off.
“Sorry,” said the check-in clerk. “You’ve missed it.”
Caroline started crying and I was reduced to begging. “Please, please, please,” I said. “We’re on our honeymoon and if we don’t get on the plane my wife will never forgive me.”
“In that case, you should have got here on time,” she said.
We ended up spending the first night of our honeymoon in a Holiday Inn in Windsor. In hindsight, perhaps I needn’t have worried so much about protecting my Skoda Octavia.
Christina Hopkinson
My life is more blunder than wonder – and marriage is no different. Ever since I can remember, my foot has had near-permanent residence in my mouth. In a Spanish lesson at my convent school, Sister Francesca asked for words that had the same root as “durar”, meaning “to last”. Other girls suggested “durable” and “Duracell”, while I shouted “Durex!” – not in rebellion, but just because if there is the wrong thing to say, then I’ll say it.
I usually have to run through the names of a few exes, our son and my brothers before I stumble on to the right one for my husband, who I’ve been with for almost two decades. The first time I met his parents, I was rude about both lawyers and civil servants, despite my now in-laws sitting squarely in the intersection of that particular Venn diagram. And, in a drunken moment far too early in our relationship, I told his flatmate that he should look for a new place to live, while at that point my beloved had no intention whatsoever of us cohabiting.
My only consolation is that he’s almost as bad, having once lovingly called his ex by the name of the particularly smelly, feral family dog.
‘He had forgotten my name. I had forgotten it, too’