Tim Dowling: it’s my wife’s birthday. So why are we at the pub quiz?

It is my wife’s birthday and I have found the perfect present for her, by clicking on the link she emailed me two weeks ago. The boys have found a similarly perfect gift by clicking on a different link. But when it comes to plans for the day, my wife is being uncharacteristically evasive.

“I can’t decide,” she says.

“Do you want to go out?” I say.

“I don’t think so,” she says.

“Do you want to stay in?” I say.

“No,” she says.

The oldest one is away, but the middle one and the youngest one have agreed to drop by after work. My wife has come home with a cake for herself. But a cake is not a plan.

“Do you want to watch a film?” I say.

“I don’t know,” she says.

As the afternoon wears on I feel uncharacteristically prepared: my present arrived in good time; I have a stash of birthday cards in my desk from the days when the boys would forget to get one. But it’s weird having no plans.

At six the middle one arrives. The youngest one turns up 20 minutes later. The presents are opened, and they are exactly what my wife wanted. Then, for a long moment, nothing.

“It’s the pub quiz tonight,” the middle one says. “I thought we could go.”

I flash him a look that says “that is a terrible idea.” But he’s not looking at me; he’s looking at his mother.

“Actually, that’s exactly what I want to do,” she says.

“Really?” I say. “Are you sure?” This comes out wrong, a bit like: do you know what a pub quiz entails?

“Yes, I’m sure,” she says. “Let’s go.”

The pub in question is almost empty when we arrive, and the few people drinking there do not look like quiz enthusiasts. But as 8pm approaches the room fills up. There are perhaps six teams, one of them made up of the middle one’s friends. But the middle one has to be on our team – this was his idea. At the last minute, his friend Calum defects to our table.

In a stunning failure of imagination, we register our team as “Dowlings +1”. Even less imaginatively, the middle one’s friends have named themselves in our honour: they are called “Dowlings + Calum”. I don’t know if this is deliberately designed to confuse the quizmaster, but it does. At the end of the first round we’re in second place, a single point behind our namesakes. My wife is enjoying herself, and I am distraught. I’m not usually competitive, but quizzes do something to me.

There is a picture round, including some flags. I can’t do flags, but the middle one easily identifies all but one: a blue field featuring stars, specifically the Plough, or Big Dipper.

“I’ve never seen that before in my life,” he says.

“I have,” I say, “but I don’t know where.” My breath runs short. I think: we need this flag.

“Is it like, Micronesia or somewhere?” says the youngest.

“They don’t have those stars in the southern hemisphere,” I say. “It could be a US state. A northern one,” I say.

“Alaska?” my wife says.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say. “Put it down.”

The quiz ends with a fiendish bonus round: one wrong answer gets you zero for all 10 questions. We leave the first two blank as a precaution.

“What football team has the nickname the Saddlers?” asks the quizmaster.

“Fuck,” says the middle one.

“Ugh,” I say.

“Walsall,” says Calum. I look up at him.

“Ae you sure?” I say. Calum gives me a hard stare.

“Hundred percent,” he says.

When the answers are read out, I can tell we’ve done well. But it’s not until Alaska’s flag is confirmed that my heart starts to pound in my chest. By the time the quizmaster says “Walsall” I know we’ve won.

Our prize is £30 and a round of drinks, but we have the option to risk this for the rollover jackpot: one question, multiple choice. My wife must decide – it’s her birthday.

“We’re going to throw it all away,” she says.

We regret this the instant the question – how old was Queen Victoria when she died? – is read out. The three answers – 78, 81, 83 – are equally plausible. I have no thoughts, beyond the notion that one should always resist the urge to split the difference: don’t say B.

“B,” I say. There is a long, dramatic pause.

“It is B!” says the quizmaster.

The rollover jackpot turns out to be £250. My wife divides it at the table – £50 each.

“A very nice birthday,” she says.

“Are you kidding?” I say. “This is the greatest night of my life.” I look at Calum, and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing.