The LTLP’s father has died.
We head down south for the ceremony. The new Baby dozes peacefully in his car seat. On the radio, there is some sad news reported about the Prime Minister’s family.
“The bloody Camerons – they’re always copying us,” observes the LTLP.
We turn on to the motorway. The traffic is heavy.
“That was, without doubt, the funniest thing that you have ever said,” I say. “I mean – I have known you for years and years now, and I have never known you to say anything funny. Whereas that was really funny.”
I indicate to overtake. “Have you been working on that one for a while?” I ask, my eyes narrowing.
“How could I possibly have been ‘working on it’ in advance? It has only just happened.”
We drive on. I keep my eyes fixed on the road. She has rattled me. We have always enjoyed very fixed roles together. She does the finances, arranges the household things, earns the money, takes responsibility for the important things with regards to the children, makes the decisions, does the entertaining and looks after all the paperwork and official matters; I make the funny remarks. If she is going to start making her own funny remarks then it will destroy the perfect balance of our relationship.
The road clears a little after we pass the airport. We drive on in silence.