“Let’s play things you’d least expect your spouse to say”

THURSDAY night and my husband and I are in bed. We’re both wearing reading spectacles for the first time.

I’m finding it hard to look at my husband in his. I’d also prefer it if he didn’t keep looking at me in mine. In all, I’m not sure about our new bedtime look. I fear it might be a bit Darby and Joan.

He glances at me sideways from his lap-top and says “you look clever in yours”.

I put my book down and consider him properly. “I can’t decide whether you look like Quincy Magoo or Postman Pat. It’s a difficult one.”

I pick up my book, read the same paragraph twice and give up. I’m distracted by my husband, who has now finished checking out DHB Aeron Pro Cycling Bib Shorts on Wiggle, and begun hopscotching noisily about on YouTube.

“It’s late,” I say. “It’s only half-eleven.” “Look up Clement Freud’s Funniest Joke Ever,” then,” I say, sitting up. He says “Not that again,” but obliges. Freud delivers his joke and I sink — as I knew I would — into my pillows with immense, laughed-out satisfaction.

While my laughter slowly subsides, resurfaces and subsides again, my husband begins surfing through clips of the final rounds of Mock the Week. In the first clip, the celebrity panellists take it in turns to walk to the microphone and make suggestions for ‘Things the Queen Didn’t Say in her Christmas Speech’. In the second, they contrive ‘Things you’re Unlikely to Hear on a Cookery Show’. After the third clip, my husband gets bored and closes YouTube.

“You could do a good one of those on marriage,” I say. “In fact, ‘Things you’d Least Expect Your Spouse to Say’ would be fun.”

He looks oddly apprehensive. “Let’s do it,” I say, suddenly galvanised, “but let’s do it with pen and paper — you write a list of things you’d never expect me to say and vice versa.”

“That’s not really improvisation,” he says. “Oh come on, bet they prepare beforehand on Mock the Week.”

We revise the rules of ‘Things you’d Least Expect your Spouse to Say’: pens are allowed, 10 minutes on the clock, no more than 10 submissions each.

Specs on, we are off. He’s quick out of the traps, scribbling fast on the back of a bank statement.

My pen is poised over the inside cover of my book. “It’s not a race,” I say.

Minutes of silent scribbling pass. From time to time he glances at me with an uppity mien — a curious expression that’s hard to fathom. Now I am oddly apprehensive.

“Time’s up,” I say, “I’ve just thought of a really good one.” He’s still scribbling. “TIME’S UP, Quincy Magoo.” He passes me his list. On it he’s written:

1. No doubt about it, Van Persie will bring the best out of Rooney.

2. Tell me again about that particle accelerator in Cern.

3. Relax — the lawn is fine.

4. Mountain-biking in Majorca? Lovely. You deserve a break.

5. Not to worry, it’s the thought that counts.

6. I’ll stand at the boarding gate, love … you go for a wander.

7. I’ve filled up the petrol tank.

8. Hangover? Stay there, I’ll get you the Neurofen.

9. Sorry.

10. I want you NOW, take me on the table. Such accuracy, I find, inhibits dispute.

I hand him my book. On the inside cover, I’ve written:

1 I LOVE the way you just took that bend.

2. A roundabout? Ahead, you say? Marvellous — I feel so safe in your hands.

3. Those kitten heels — with the little bows! I’m with you — absolute bargain.

4. No panic, I know exactly where my wallet is.

6. This hangover was all my own doing. I’ll soldier on.

7. Sorry.

8. I don’t mind one bit, pass me your undercooked scallops, you take my steak.

9. Cliff-jumping? Good god, no — I’m all about safety, me.

10. I really think we need to talk about this. Such accuracy, he finds, inhibits dispute.

It is as I fear: we are Darby and Joan.