the times | Wednesday August 5 2020 1GT 3
times
wedding after lockdown
hide out of earshot at the end of the
garden. I felt more claustrophobic as
the weeks passed.
My fiancé and I lost the things that
gave us joy: the festivals we would go
dancing around together; the opera;
the impromptu holidays exploring
strange towns; the dinner parties we
threw for friends; the Friday nights
that would end up messily at a weird
club, which we would giggle about the
next morning as we did on that first
night when I took him home. In
lockdown we lost our laughter.
It began to feel as if in six years
together we had never moved on from
that first night. We had never learnt
who the other one was. Or perhaps
until now we had never had to look.
There was always a distraction and
always an escape. I began to suspect
I was building a life with someone
whom I only really loved when we
were getting wrecked at the Burning
Man festival (which is worrying
because I am nearly 40 years old).If we began lockdown in a parody
good marriage, we ended in a parody
bad marriage. It was all telescoped into
three months. I got fat and he got
angry. As I piled on the pounds (no
thanks to my bread), he criticised my
weight and called me things I won’t
repeat. The rows became screaming
matches, then competitions to say the
most unkind things to each other.
People told me to wait. “Things are
extremely difficult for everyone right
now,” one friend said. “Don’t do
anything drastic,” said another.
Perhaps I should have listened, but I
had a feeling in my chest that instead
of confusing my feelings, lockdown
had only made things clearer. I was
marrying someone who, when things
got difficult, wasn’t there for me.
Perhaps I wasn’t there for him either.
Instead of being an exception,
lockdown seemed like a prophecy of
our life together, and it looked
worrying. We were about to take on
a big mortgage. I was trying to get
pregnant. We were exploring IVF. We
were planning a life together, yet it
seemed we couldn’t manage three
months in the same house.
Eventually we had a row so extreme
I had no choice but to leave. I put my
things in the VW van and left. I drove
down the road and for the first time in
months felt free.
I now think that I saw in him a
fantasy of normality that I never really
wanted. I don’t know what he wanted;
he became too angry to tell me.
Perhaps he doesn’t know. Neither of us
could articulate what we desired from
each other, and neither of us got it.
The pandemic has given people
a sense of urgency and perspective,
and that is what it did for me. I
realised I could not spend my life
in a relationship that made us
both unhappy.each other, and the fighting began. Katie Glass
It seemed that as a couple we were
peculiarly bad at dealing with stress.
As I became anxious, instead of
reaching out to soothe me, my fiancé
only became angry. Similarly, as he
struggled with his fears, I had no
resources to help.
As anger set in between us, in
lockdown there was no escape.
We had rowed before, of course, but
before they had been passionate rows
that quickly burnt out. In lockdown we
were stuck with them flaming.
It became increasingly obvious how
much we had relied on the pressure
valve of my work trips. The long drives
to interviews and endless travel I did
had kept us together in ways I hadn’t
understood. It seemed that all thoseairport kisses and Skype calls about
how much we missed each other were
far sweeter than spending time
together. I realised that it is true that
“absence makes the heart grow
fonder”. When I didn’t have to see my
fiancé I loved him most.
During lockdown we were stuck
together with no escape, falling asleep
beside each other’s anger and waking
up to unresolved conflict. Our
bickering was tidal, ebbing and flowing
over the day, but never ending.
We had lost our crutches too.
The nights out that I’d usually have
with friends, talking through the
relationship problems I was facing
and often resolving them, didn’t
happen. Even telephone calls were
difficult. I found myself trying toCHARLIE CLIFT FOR THE SUNDAY TIMES
Feeling charitable?Always. You should have seen
how hard I hit my pots and pans
for the NHS.This is for a slightly lesser cause
than that.Not a problem. You’re talking to
someone who still sends money
to their prep school. Try me.Well! In that case! Remember
Fyre Festival?Nope.
Really? It was the subject of a viral
Netflix documentary — in the time
before, when we all had lots more
to do than watch TV.I see. Go on.
Well, it was a huge festival (billed
as the next Coachella at the time)
that ended up never happening.Whatever. I could name a few of
those this year.Well, as I said, this was in the
time before. So act shocked. Plus,
there’s more! Not only did Fyre not
happen — the guests didn’t find out
until they arrived.Come again?
Fyre advertised to entertain hot
young mega influencers and be the
ultimate luxury festival experience,
set on a private island in the
Bahamas. Tickets cost up to
$12,000. It was all over social media
as the party to be at. But when
guests arrived, they got a shabby
tent, cheese sandwiches, no music
and... no refund.Yikes. But also... a little funny?
For us, yes. I’m not sure the guests
thought it was. But here’s where
you come in, generous donor.Oh dear.
Merchandise from the horror show
of an event has gone up for auction
in a sale organised by the US
government: 126 items of branded
clothing, wristbands, and souvenirs
are available to buy until August 13,
with proceeds going towards the
victims of the festival organiser,
Billy McFarland. He owes
$26 million in compensation,
by the way.Crikey. How much are these T-shirts
selling for?Who cares? It’s for charity,
remember.Hannah Rogers
The lowdown
Fyre Festival
The rows became
competitions to
say the most
unkind things
F re ad ertised to entertain hot