Ed Miliband seems to be all for marriage, so how come he’s too busy for one of his own?

Look, I get it.

Look, I get it. I know how it is. You’ve got a lot on. You’re overdue a haircut, your parking permit is about to run out, and you got something from the tax man the other day, which you wrote a phone number on and took to work, and brought home again without actually reading, and put… where? You’ve been meaning to take your dark grey suit to the dry-cleaners for months now, actually months, but you keep accidentally taking the light grey one instead, which means that although the dark one is getting ever stiffer and shinier and more aromatic, somehow, of raisins, you still keep having to wear it anyway because the light one, despite being really quite extraordinarily clean — gleaming, eat your dinner off it — doesn’t actually fit.

You’d go to the gym, but when? It’s the job. You go in, you work, you come home, you think about work, and the harder you work, the less likely you are to remember to do all those little vital everyday chores of life, such as getting married, registering the birth of your child, and remarking to your brother, at some point in your life thus far, that you, too, would like to be prime minister.