Back to his old job. He must miss it. “At IRC, you’re not governing the fate of countries in the same way. So will I miss it? Of course,” Miliband allowed. “But in truth, I’ve been frustrated for two or three years. I’ve had a feeling that I’ve got experience and ideas and things to say, and I’ve not really been able to say them. As I was telling the IRC staff, the nonprofit sector can do some things much better than government, and one of those things is innovation. It’s incredibly refreshing, actually.”
He drank a second cup of coffee and stood up. At home, the boxes awaited. “Chaos,” he said ruefully. “Our first night, we had no sheets or towels. The kids had a bath and got dried with napkins. Moving is not hard compared to the problems some people have, but on the list of middle-class traumas, it’s quite high.”
He set off toward the subway. Outside of Madison Square Garden, Miliband found a newspaper stand. He pointed at the Daily News, which had run a cover story on Parliament’s Syria vote under the headline THE BRITISH AREN’T COMING! He dug in his pocket for 75 cents.
“I’m one of those British who isn’t coming,” he said to the woman manning the stand. She smiled blankly and handed him the paper.