The One With Nick and Miriam’s Date Night by

Iain Hollingshead

“DARLING, CAN YOU still remember our honeymoon minute by minute?”

Miriam gave Nick a caustic look and moved the bread basket aside, making more space for her fascinating paper on Regulatory Aspects of the WTO Telecoms Agreements.

“And what about our wedding?” Nick continued, hopefully. “Would you say it was the most memorable 24 hours of your life?”

Miriam put down her law journal and leant across the overpriced bowl of olives. “I said I’d come on a date night with you,” she said in Spanish. “But I didn’t say I’d talk to you. And I certainly didn’t agree to you trying to inject some fake ‘Dave and Sam magic’ into our marriage.”

She leant under the table to retrieve another pile of legal papers from her Smythson handbag. “After all,” she sniffed, “some of us women have proper jobs to do.”

Nick glanced down morosely at the menu and wondered what a modern man was supposed to do. He’d clocked off early, as usual, to fetch the kids from school, helped them with their homework (struggling only a little with the maths) and even paid the babysitter out of his own tiny salary.

He’d thought Miriam would be happy with the surprise date. But no. Frankly, they might as well have gone to watch The

Artist for all the scintillating conversation.

It was a shame, thought Nick, for he had so much to talk about, and so few people to talk about it to. Dave, George, William – they all had less time for him these days. Even his own party members were preoccupied: Vince with his dancing; Chris with his journalists – and the police.

Nick glanced down at the menu. Three pounds for a glass of wine! So much more expensive than the House of Commons. He needed more money. Europe, perhaps. A commissioner…

“Would you please stop humming?”

Nick looked up. “I was so not humming,” he said.

“Yes, you were. You were humming, ‘I’m so Ronery’ from Team America.” “Well, maybe I am.” “Maybe you’re what?” “Ronery.” “What?” “Lonely. Maybe I am lonely.”

Miriam took his hand, sympathetically. “You’re not going to cry again, are you?”

“No,” said Nick, wishing the waiter would turn off the Radiohead. “I just thought you might like to talk.”

“What is there to talk about?” said Miriam.

Nick scratched his head. There were so many things: Boris’s new airport, which would be so beastly for the poor birds; the Wikipedia blackout, which had caused such havoc in the Lib Dems’ research office; the fact that Dave had men with Tasers to protect him and he had nothing.

He looked across at Miriam, who was buried in her law journal again. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Let’s just get the bill.”

“And who’s going to pay?” she asked. “You? The taxpayer?”

“No,” said Nick, smiling for the first time that evening as he took out their joint card. “I thought we’d opt for the John Lewis co-operative approach.”