I've known the Sam Cams of this world for many years; they're usually married to chums, and live in Richmond, or Twickenham. Apart from social occasions, you usually only see them when you open a sleep encrusted eye to realise in a flood of existential angst that you're sleeping on their sofa after a night out with their husband. As they open curtains and windows to expel the frowsty debauch stench, your best tactic is to groan. The best of them will bring you a pint of cold orange juice, and prevent their infant offspring from poking you with kitchen implements. Inevitably you will ask "Did we make much noise when we got in last night?" to which the faux-chilled response will be "No, not after you found the right house" or similar. You see, Sam Cams accept that their men need a decent binge from time to time and the occasional tenancy of their sofa is an acceptable price to pay.
I'm far less certain about Sarah Brown. She has something of a look in her that would give me second thoughts about leaving sharp knives about. Classwise, I can't place her; she's like the Scots, who also can't be defined in English class terms. I can imagine her gutting herring in Hull more easily than I can see her chairing an ad agency business development meeting in Golden Square. She would look natural in tartan and scary in orange. I really wouldn't like to wake up on Sarah's sofa.
I presume Nick Clegg is married but can't be bothered to look it up. I've never seen a picture or footage of his wife. However, she'd be a strange woman indeed if she didn't mutter 'Thirty boy!" from time to time.
There you have it.