It’s Saturday, and I’m in front of the TV with my three sons and the oldest one’s girlfriend. My wife rings from the supermarket. “What veg do we need?” she asks.
“We’re watching the Labour leadership announcement,” I say.
“Oh,” she says. “How’s it going?”
“They’re taking their time about it,” I say.
“Text me a list,” she says.
My children crouch round the screen while bickering about the finer points of the Alternative Vote system. They may as well be watching the Champions League group stage draw. A cheer goes up while I am busy thumbing my phone screen. I send my wife a text that says “tomatoes aubergine courgette corbyn”, then another that says “printer ink”. When I look up, Jeremy Corbyn is making his victory speech, and I’m alone in the room.
The next day, as we prepare lunch, I describe the scene to my wife. “That’s the level of their political engagement,” I say. “They didn’t even listen to the speech.”
“What did you expect?” she says.
“I mean, I didn’t really listen to the speech, either, but I stayed put until it was over.”
“I think this chicken is done,” she says, peering into the oven.
“Shall we have runner beans as well?” I say. “There are loads.”
“Eugh,” she says. “Fine, if you must.”
In all the time we’ve been married, I’ve never heard my wife raise the slightest objection to runner beans – I’ve seen her eat them on many occasions without complaint –, until this summer, when I planted a heavy-cropping variety in the garden. I’m not suggesting her hatred of runner beans is irrational or invalid. It’s just new and ill-timed.
The oldest one and his girlfriend walk in. I quiz them about their whereabouts during the speech.
“I went to the rally in Hyde Park,” the oldest’s girlfriend says. “I was, like, a metre away from Jeremy Corbyn.”
“Oh,” I say, turning to the boy. “And you?”
“I had a job,” he says. “At a festival.”
“Doing what?” I say.
“On a machine that pours 12 pints at once.”
I try to visualise this automatic landlord, without success. “Sounds cool,” I say.
“I got a lot of beer in my eyes,” he says.
Over lunch, the discussion returns to the Labour leadership. My wife dares to suggest that the young people’s newfound commitment to progressive politics might not be reflected across the wider electorate.
“Commitment?” I say. “They didn’t even stay for the speech. There are more beans, by the way.”
Our comments are dismissed, as are the beans. The young people speak instead of a politics beyond left and right, of a complex tangle of social attitudes, libertarian concerns and economic strategies. At least, I think that’s what they’re talking about. I have drifted off, chewing slowly while entertaining an idea that seems, in the circumstances, mildly heretical. I’m thinking: maybe I don’t like runner beans, either.
When I return to the present, my wife is trying to pinpoint her exact position on this new political matrix: socially progressive, libertarian by instinct, economically confused.
“So you’re basically Lib Dem,” the oldest says.
“No,” my wife says.
“You are,” he says. “You’re a textbook Lib Dem.”
“Oh Christ,” she says. “I am.”
“Now’s the time to join,” I say. “You could be leader in three years.”
“I might start my own party,” my wife says, “and run for something.”
“What will your slogan be?” the oldest one asks.
“How about ‘I Just Want To Give Something Back, But Not The Money’?” I say.
“Yes, perfect,” she says.
“Seriously,” I say. “These beans aren’t going to eat themselves.”
