Middle-aged couple find their love language is silence

A LONGTIME couple’s romantic night out at a restaurant has made them realise their love language is now a chilly silence. 

50-year-old Nathan Muir and wife of 20 years Jo booked a table at D’Agistino’s to reaffirm their romance and soon realised they would achieve this by not talking to each other at all.

Muir said: “Other love languages include physical touch and gifts. Not so much ours. Our love thrives on hush and looking in different directions.

“We managed 90 seconds chat on the breadsticks – the flavour, the consistency, how they compare to other breadsticks we’ve had – and a further 35 seconds on the waiter’s earring. Then we lapsed into what makes us both comfortable.

“28 minutes and 40 seconds later, they brought the meal and we made noises of acknowledgement, then it would have been rude to talk with our mouths full, then I was concerned I might have spinach on my teeth so kept my mouth shut.

“Anyone watching would’ve thought it was a date between a monk and a nun from rival silent orders. It’s a sign of love, knowing so much about each other there’s nothing left to say.

“Besides, what am I going to do – flirt with my own wife, like a pervert? No, our love goes beyond words. We’d renew our vows if we could do it silently.”

Jo Muir agreed: “Mm.”

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Good day, sir! I am a man down the pub trying to sell you shoplifted chocolate

GOOD evening, welcome to this fine inner-city hostelry the tourists do not frequent. Can I tempt you to a large bar of Dairy Milk? 

No, sir, I am not a licensed seller of confectionery. More of an entrepreneur, which is why my wares can be offered at such competitive prices. Box of Lindor truffles for your good lady?

How did I obtain such a delectable range of toothsome comestibles? Ah, well thereby hangs a tale of derring-do to match those of folk heroes Robin Hood and Dick Turpin! For I, with my own hands, shoplifted them from my local branch of the Co-op!

Yes, I am a familiar face in those aisles, which is why I call in at only the busiest times when the staff are most distracted. When there are queues for sausage rolls and an elderly gentleman seeks to put £20 on his gas card; that is my time.

I make my way over to the chocolate, alcohol now being protected from my depredations, and not to put to fine a point on it, I fill my trousers. And my jacket, and this sweater you see here which has remained unwashed for many months.

Then, espied by security who relish our game of cat-and-mouse as much as I, I flee. I run as fast as my shaking legs can carry me, still loaded with chocolate bars around my intimate areas. Only when safely hidden in a grimy back alley do I count my spoils.

And here they are for you now, good people, fresh and discounted. Tony’s Chocolonely? Lindt Intense Dark? This Toblerone which wedged so neatly in my cleft?

No? Suit yourselves. It saddens me so many do not recognise a bargain when they see one.