“What’s
it like being married to an MP?” is the inevitable question I’m asked when
people find out who my spouse is, all the while looking at me with an eager
anticipation as though I’m about to give them a glimpse into a life of wining
and dining with movers and shakers. My go-to pithy retort is always, ‘I’ve
never been married to anyone else so I have no basis of comparison.’ Cue a few
obligatory laughs, the conversation moves on, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Phew. Awkward situation averted. Because the truth, which is definitely not
the answer people want to hear, is that it’s not easy. In fact, it’s downright
hard work.
Marriage
in general requires work, and in what I've said and about to say I’m not
detracting from that. But being married to an MP is a different type of work. In
the beginning of our relationship I was quite blind to the repercussions and
implications that went along with his job. And I never realised it would be
quite so far-reaching as to consume my life too, turning it so completely on
its head that it was no longer discernible from my previous life. I’d like to
say I slipped into the role of WOMP (a Westminster
nickname for Wife Of MP) with great ease, but I’d be lying. It has been the
steepest learning curve I've ever encountered with many a pothole along the way
that I've tripped up over. I've done my fare share of kicking and screaming,
been wrapped over the knuckles for mis-behaving, and done a lot of silent,
smiling steaming. But, as with anything, it gets easier over time.
But, what
is it really all about? Is being married to an MP really that arduous? Most people think it’s the life of Riley with
schmoozing galore, and a never-ending cycle of glitz and glamour. Read on for
the real story!
The Reversion to the 1950’s family
roles
I have always considered myself somewhat of a
feminist. Among other things, I waited until in my 30’s to get married. OK, in
part that was because I’d never met anyone I wanted to marry, but it was also
because I often saw marriage as career-blocker for women. In marriage we become
placated and comfortable. Shrouded in this security our sight line moves from
the career path to the stove, and from ambition to the iron, making sure that
our families have full bellies and clean, ironed clothes and finding utter
contentment in just that. I admit my view was very jaded, and it was based on a
few friendships I’d seen change irrevocably after nuptials. I am pleased (and
quick) to say that this is no longer my attitude. But, nonetheless, I wanted to
ensure that whomever I married shared, among other things, the more menial
tasks that are more often than not placed on women. I wanted to be an equal
partner. I found this in Alec. Being a confirmed bachelor when I met him, and a
neat freak, he was deft with a hoover and handy with a mop (these obviously weren't his only strengths!)
Oh, how I've been mocked. The reality of the situation is that he’s never around to be
able to help with household chores. Working in London four days, and three nights a week I keep
the homestead fires burning in his absence. When he is home it is literally to
eat a meal, change a shirt, and lay his head on a pillow for a few hours. He.
Works. All. Of. The. Time. All of this, of course, means that I have been left
with pretty much all the household duties. To be fair, when he does have a bit
of spare time he does his bit, but he is well aware of the shift in balance
within the house. I spent the first year of our marriage in denial about this
seismic shift, but the ever-dusty home, and over-piled laundry basket knocked
me out of the delusion of what I expected our marriage to be like, and into the
reality of what it was actually like. I do have to say though that Alec always
makes sure I know how much he appreciates everything I do. And, for that alone,
it makes the monotonous tasks all the more durable. But there are times, like
when I’m ironing the 16th shirt from the load of washing he’s
brought back from London, or cooking a meal at midnight because he’s come home
from a late night meeting and is starving, and I’m possibly cursing the
in-equality of the situation that I remind myself that making my husband look
smart, feel loved, comfortable and secure (which is how he makes me feel
everyday) is a great joy, and that this umpteenth shirt, or this late night
meal is a small price to pay for that happiness. It is then that I smile because
I have become the exact ideal I never wanted to be, and I’m OK with that…now.
The invisible social life
And it’s not just household chores that he gets
slipped from. Above and beyond the routine errands, he also has little time for
us. Yes, he comes home on Thursday night, but no, we don’t have a weekend
together. He’s out all day Friday at surgeries, usually has an event on Friday
night, out all day Saturday. We try to keep Saturday night and Sunday for
ourselves, but this isn't always possible. So, at absolute best we have 1 day,
and 1 evening together a week. During this ‘downtime’ he’s usually so tired
that all he wants to do is sleep and relax. So, during the week I rush to get
all the chores done so that what little time can be afforded at the weekend isn't marred by tasks, and we can have a few un-interrupted hours together. Well, I say un-interrupted, but I’m lying. His phone is never switched off and
to that end he’s never ‘off duty’. This was hard to accept in the beginning. It
was a while into this new lifestyle with Alec before I could fully appreciate
the tranquility of staying in on a Saturday night.
As part of our resolutions for January 2013 we instituted a date night. Each month one of us had to take the other out, out of the house, out of the village, and spend some quality time together. We even put dates for the year into our diaries and told Alec’s staff that these dates were carved in stone and couldn’t be moved. It was June by the time we decided to abandon the idea after only managing to stick to a few date nights, because as always, an important something came up and like a tidal wave, wiped out all personal plans.
The big stuff
I can live
with losing the date nights. I can tolerate having limited downtime with my
husband, and I’ve even learned to accept all the household chores, but one of
the hardest pills to swallow has been the solitude. There are times when it
gets lonely, and no amount of interaction with friends is going to plug that
Alec-shaped hole. I doff my cap to spouses of service men and women, for their
loneliness must be far more acute with their partners being away for months at
a time. You have my utter respect and admiration.
But, it’s
not just the loneliness that’s frustrating. What’s worse is the doing things
alone, enduring life’s highs and lows alone. You can guarantee that when
something big happens he is persona non grata. The day I got moved to a new
position in my job and was devastated? Alec was in a debate in Westminster Hall
for 4 hours and couldn't be reached. The day I got a new job? Alec was in back-to-back
appointments and couldn't be disturbed. The day I had surgery? He managed to
get a half day slip and came to Leeds, sat by my bedside for one hour, and then
went back to London .
When I was taken to hospital and kept in for a few days and had no one to look
after the dogs? Alec was on a three line whip and couldn't leave London . Thank God for
friends and family who came to the rescue. Lately, the ‘big stuff’ issue is
IVF. We’re about to start our third attempt. During the first attempt Alec
could barely be there through any of it due to commitments in London , and it was quite hard to go through
it alone. After that, we orchestrated the next attempt during summer recess.
Now, we've moved to a clinic in London ,
in part because it means Alec can be more involved. But when he’s not there for
the big things, good or bad, it is these times that are the hardest to endure
because they are an awful reminder of that fact that for much of the time I
live a single life. And, I don’t like it.
Modern-day Feudalism
Being a WOMP means that you are obligated, nay expected, to give indentured servitude.
To this end your presence is sought demanded at dinners, events,
functions, fetes, fairs, conferences…you name it, you’re supposed to be there.
Actually, no one really cares when you’re there, and certainly even fewer
actually speak to you, other than to ask you what it’s like to be married to an
MP. But, if you’re not there...woe
betide you! The ferocity of the naysayers is un-rivaled, all quick to point
out to anyone else who’ll listen that the lack of your presence was ruefully
noted and won’t be forgotten. Ever. Tut tut. Naughty girl. So, as dutiful
wifey, I go to these events, play my part, smile a lot, and then I sit through
Alec’s speech. Now, I love my husband, and I find him engaging and interesting,
but there’s only so many times I can hear the same speech before I have completely exhausted my mental
capacity for litany, and train myself to become a professional lagophthalmos (someone who falls asleep with their eyes open).
You’re also expected to take part in any charity event that your husband participates in. Again, no one really cares if you do it, but they sure as heck notice you if you don’t. To this end, in the name of charity, I have donned an ill-fitting wet suit and swam Lake Windermere. Everyone clapped Alec on the back whilst I silently suffered from what I can only deem to be a water-born strain of e coli. Recently, I wore a onesie to help Alec raise money for his latest charity (see www.justgiving.com/ashelbrookemp). These are the lengths you go to for your husband, and in the name of keeping up appearances!
Beyond the dinner and events, I am also expected to go canvassing. This is the art of knocking on people’s doors and asking their voting intention. In the name of canvassing I can lose a tremendous amount of my personal time.
Oh, how I would love to meet a friend for food, or go shopping, or sleep in on a weekend, but that life is not mine anymore. If there is one thing on this planet that I abhor, detest, and loathe it is canvassing. There is simply no joy in trekking door-to-door in the driving rain having people lob abuse at you. Of course there are the days when the sun shines and the people are friendly. I think I’ve experienced one, sometime, a long time ago. However, the absolute worst aspect of canvassing is the letter boxes and doors. You spy a ‘bad door’ and covet the notion of slowing down to allow one of the other canvassers to get their first. A bad door, you ask? Well, a good door has a doorbell, and/or a door knocker with a letter box at waist height. A ‘bad door’ has neither knocker, nor bell and/or has a letterbox near the ground. Why so bad? Well, rapping your knuckles against hard wood all day long in the driving rain and bitter cold leads to dry, cracked, and bleeding knuckles. This is exasperated by shoving your hand repeatedly through letterboxes that act more like Venus Hand-Traps than mail receptacles. But, the letter boxes near the ground, they’re the worst. By the time you've got down on your hands and knees to reach the thing you've lost most of the pile of flyers in your grasp, so you end up crawling around on all fours shoving and retrieving flyers, whilst the rain is turning the whole lot into papier-mâché. Owners of ‘bad doors’ should be fined for cruel and unusual punishment. Why not wear gloves, you ask?: Obvious reasoning, except you can’t grab a single flyer whilst wearing gloves, so bear handed it has to be.
Canvassing gives you a whole new respect for the postman, but the postman seldom has to deal with the unpleasantness canvassing can incite. You don’t have to agree with my politics, but it takes as much effort to be rude as it does to be nice. So, if I happen to knock on your door sometime, please be nice to me!
Smile please, you’re on candid camera!
You’re also expected to take part in any charity event that your husband participates in. Again, no one really cares if you do it, but they sure as heck notice you if you don’t. To this end, in the name of charity, I have donned an ill-fitting wet suit and swam Lake Windermere. Everyone clapped Alec on the back whilst I silently suffered from what I can only deem to be a water-born strain of e coli. Recently, I wore a onesie to help Alec raise money for his latest charity (see www.justgiving.com/ashelbrookemp). These are the lengths you go to for your husband, and in the name of keeping up appearances!
Beyond the dinner and events, I am also expected to go canvassing. This is the art of knocking on people’s doors and asking their voting intention. In the name of canvassing I can lose a tremendous amount of my personal time.
Oh, how I would love to meet a friend for food, or go shopping, or sleep in on a weekend, but that life is not mine anymore. If there is one thing on this planet that I abhor, detest, and loathe it is canvassing. There is simply no joy in trekking door-to-door in the driving rain having people lob abuse at you. Of course there are the days when the sun shines and the people are friendly. I think I’ve experienced one, sometime, a long time ago. However, the absolute worst aspect of canvassing is the letter boxes and doors. You spy a ‘bad door’ and covet the notion of slowing down to allow one of the other canvassers to get their first. A bad door, you ask? Well, a good door has a doorbell, and/or a door knocker with a letter box at waist height. A ‘bad door’ has neither knocker, nor bell and/or has a letterbox near the ground. Why so bad? Well, rapping your knuckles against hard wood all day long in the driving rain and bitter cold leads to dry, cracked, and bleeding knuckles. This is exasperated by shoving your hand repeatedly through letterboxes that act more like Venus Hand-Traps than mail receptacles. But, the letter boxes near the ground, they’re the worst. By the time you've got down on your hands and knees to reach the thing you've lost most of the pile of flyers in your grasp, so you end up crawling around on all fours shoving and retrieving flyers, whilst the rain is turning the whole lot into papier-mâché. Owners of ‘bad doors’ should be fined for cruel and unusual punishment. Why not wear gloves, you ask?: Obvious reasoning, except you can’t grab a single flyer whilst wearing gloves, so bear handed it has to be.
Canvassing gives you a whole new respect for the postman, but the postman seldom has to deal with the unpleasantness canvassing can incite. You don’t have to agree with my politics, but it takes as much effort to be rude as it does to be nice. So, if I happen to knock on your door sometime, please be nice to me!
Smile please, you’re on candid camera!
Alec is never off duty. Ever. Which means that I’m not off duty either. This means that no matter where we go or what we do we’re always on display and open to comment, discussion, or criticism. I learned this the hard way. During our first year together, being oblivious to this spotlight lifestyle, I tried to engage Alec in my lifestyle. Anyone who knows
my husband knows he’s a frustrated rock star, so for his birthday I rented a karaoke booth for him to sing his little heart out. Mid evening he left the booth to use the facilities and was confronted in the bathroom mid-stream. Every dinner, or event we went to, he was always recognised and his counsel was sort. So, I took him off to the coast for the weekend to have some alone time. Everyday we bumped into a constituent. That’s when I decided the next holiday had to be out of the country, so we spent a few days in Spain. Sitting in a little café having breakfast one morning, someone walked by and said, ‘Hello Alec, mind if I join you?’ And, poof! Alec is instantly working again. By the end of our first year I realised it was me that had to change my lifestyle to accommodate him, because it just wasn't possible for him to be part of the world I’d known up to that point. This is when we took to hibernating. Closing the doors, shutting the curtains, and spending time in our house, just the two of us, all alone. And we love it!
Whilst it is Alec who lives his life in the spotlight, mine is definitely skirting the edges. OK, I don’t get noticed in the street, but I have learned (again, the hard way) to be extremely careful what I say, what I put out on a public domain, and sadly who my real friends are. This has been the steepest learning curve of all. I didn't want to believe any of my friends would betray me, or my husband. But, I had to re-evaluate this position when one of my ‘friends’ sold pictures from my Facebook to the Sun newspaper. Instantly, I found myself questioning every friendship and every friend. Because of this I’m very careful now whom I bring into my ‘inner circle’ of friends, what I say and to whom, and unfortunately along the way have had to make tough decisions on whom I could and couldn't trust.
There have been times in the past few years whereby I've been vicariously disliked e.g. someone doesn't like my husband’s politics and they lack the mental capacity to differentiate a dislike of politics with a dislike of the person. Being married to him, this dislike has been extended to me. You can spot these people a mile off; you've never/barely ever spoken to them, but they won’t shake your hand, or look you in the eye, they make disparaging comments, and walk away from you as you get close to them. I found this hard to take at first, and actually took it quite personally. I’d spend ages mentally ruminating what I’d done wrong to these people until Alec made me see sense. My response to them has always been a charm offensive; I will make you like me, and I will make you see beyond your limited parameters. For the most part, this has worked. But, then there’s always the anomaly, that person that really is a nasty piece of work, and it’s got nothing to do with politics. They just have a sadistic pleasure in trying to get you to let your guard down. It is because of all the above, but mostly this latter person that I have to be very careful about everything I say and do. No matter how riled, goaded, or provoked I am my response has to be placating, ambiguous, and executed with a smile. You have no idea how hard I have to bite my tongue sometimes!
Would I change my life?
One thing we do have in our favour is my interest in politics. You need to be interested in politics for this kind of relationship to survive. Without that interest you will suffer because the never-ending meetings, conferences and dinners will be excruciating. Even the conversations with your own husband will be limited because trust me, all politicians eat, sleep, breathe, and excrete politics and it’s all they know to talk about. At least Alec and I can talk the talk with each other, which keeps us even more connected.
I might have gone into this situation blind, but sometimes a baptism of fire is just what you need. As difficult as it may have been at some points Alec has always been there to support, help, guide, and defend. He really is my hero. He often says that he couldn't do his job half as well as he does if it weren't for me. But, the truth is he makes me a better person just by being him, and in fact it’s me that needs to pay homage to him because I couldn't have gotten through these past 4 years without his un-wavering support.
On the occasion that we have gone on holiday, something has always ‘come up’, that has in some way up-ended the vacation. We've never had a holiday that hasn't run into some kind of stumbling block. On waking up on the first day of our honeymoon in August 2011, in a quaint New England Inn, we were met with the news that Parliament was being re-called due to the riots. In April, 2013 we decided to take a long weekend in Scotland. We’d been there 2 days when Parliament was recalled for Margaret Thatcher’s death. At the end of August, 2013 we’d just failed our second IVF attempt, which happened on my birthday. We were both feeling emotionally bedraggled, and decided to go away for a long weekend, just to lick our wounds. Bags packed, about to walk out of the door, and Parliament was recalled for the Syria debate and vote, and I was left licking solitary wounds.Whilst it is Alec who lives his life in the spotlight, mine is definitely skirting the edges. OK, I don’t get noticed in the street, but I have learned (again, the hard way) to be extremely careful what I say, what I put out on a public domain, and sadly who my real friends are. This has been the steepest learning curve of all. I didn't want to believe any of my friends would betray me, or my husband. But, I had to re-evaluate this position when one of my ‘friends’ sold pictures from my Facebook to the Sun newspaper. Instantly, I found myself questioning every friendship and every friend. Because of this I’m very careful now whom I bring into my ‘inner circle’ of friends, what I say and to whom, and unfortunately along the way have had to make tough decisions on whom I could and couldn't trust.
There have been times in the past few years whereby I've been vicariously disliked e.g. someone doesn't like my husband’s politics and they lack the mental capacity to differentiate a dislike of politics with a dislike of the person. Being married to him, this dislike has been extended to me. You can spot these people a mile off; you've never/barely ever spoken to them, but they won’t shake your hand, or look you in the eye, they make disparaging comments, and walk away from you as you get close to them. I found this hard to take at first, and actually took it quite personally. I’d spend ages mentally ruminating what I’d done wrong to these people until Alec made me see sense. My response to them has always been a charm offensive; I will make you like me, and I will make you see beyond your limited parameters. For the most part, this has worked. But, then there’s always the anomaly, that person that really is a nasty piece of work, and it’s got nothing to do with politics. They just have a sadistic pleasure in trying to get you to let your guard down. It is because of all the above, but mostly this latter person that I have to be very careful about everything I say and do. No matter how riled, goaded, or provoked I am my response has to be placating, ambiguous, and executed with a smile. You have no idea how hard I have to bite my tongue sometimes!
Would I change my life?
Not for all the tea in China! Yes, my life has changed irrevocably since I met Alec. Yes, it’s barely distinguishable from my previous existence. Yes, it’s hard work, long hours, little down time, little alone time, everyone wants a piece of him, and you’re never off duty. But, my husband has changed my life for the better. I think back to my previous life and it feels cold, un-relatable, and definitely not a place I ever want to go back to. Despite the fact that Alec’s job is all consuming to our lives I know that I am a top priority for him, as he is for me, which makes accepting all the above all the easier.
One thing we do have in our favour is my interest in politics. You need to be interested in politics for this kind of relationship to survive. Without that interest you will suffer because the never-ending meetings, conferences and dinners will be excruciating. Even the conversations with your own husband will be limited because trust me, all politicians eat, sleep, breathe, and excrete politics and it’s all they know to talk about. At least Alec and I can talk the talk with each other, which keeps us even more connected.
I might have gone into this situation blind, but sometimes a baptism of fire is just what you need. As difficult as it may have been at some points Alec has always been there to support, help, guide, and defend. He really is my hero. He often says that he couldn't do his job half as well as he does if it weren't for me. But, the truth is he makes me a better person just by being him, and in fact it’s me that needs to pay homage to him because I couldn't have gotten through these past 4 years without his un-wavering support.