ABOUT 10 minutes into the first episode of Marriage, the BBC drama starring Sean Bean and Nicola Walker, I thought: "I hate these people. They’re boring, petty and they have stupid arguments about nothing, followed by long periods of silence, while they load the dishwasher and make tea."
Shortly after that, it occurred to me that psychologists say the things that annoy us most in others are the traits we most fear in ourselves. That’s the subtle brilliance of this series – it reflects us back to ourselves, stripped of the comforting lies we tell each other about how interesting and lovable we are.
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Ian and Emma, the central couple, married for 27 years, aren’t particularly happy. Then again, they’re not that unhappy either.
They share little moments of rapport and quiet understanding among the daily irritations and speak to each other in the way of every long-married pair.
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” snaps Emma.
“Of course you haven’t – you never do,” replies Ian.
I must admit, I felt a shudder of unpleasant recognition at that sarky little exchange.
I’ve been married three times (yes, I know), most recently this May to my partner of eight years, Andy. We love each other dearly.
That didn’t stop me coming home from a lovely, relaxing yoga class and picking a fight because earlier on he hadn’t been pleased enough to see me after my weekend away.
So often in marriage, the rows that blow up aren’t about the issue being discussed. I’ve had arguments that purported to be about how to cook sprouts (who stir-fries sprouts, seriously?) when in fact they were always about feeling dismissed.
Or a chilly tone of voice or a fundamental issue of painful incompatibility masquerading as a sudden vicious argument about bedding plants. (In Ian and Emma’s case, a baked potato – when in fact Ian was scared of flying).
The series, written by Stefan Golaszewski, writer of the much-adored sitcoms Mum and Him and Her, is a direct window into another couple’s marriage – and it’s astonishing how like our own it is.
Life as a couple, it reminds us, is a series of domestic mundanities – kettles filled, pillows thumped, bedside lights switched off at different times – and in between there are moments of deep connection, when you know someone so well you don’t have to speak to know exactly what the other is thinking.
I’ve been at parties with my husband and in a brief look he’ll say: “I’ve had enough of making small talk with your friend’s weird husband,” and with a glance back I’ll reply: “I know, but we have to stay a bit longer to be polite.”
The dull realities of a shared existence can loom large – in fact, he just Face-timed me from the supermarket to tell me there was no decent veg left.
But while his gloomy descriptions of Brexit vegetables may not greatly amuse others, I find them endearing.
After the flash and bang of falling in love, marriage is the steady glow that lights your way home... and sometimes makes you long for a raging furnace to obliterate your partner and their deeply irritating habits.
My husband has a special face that he only does when I’ve left washing up “to soak” – a weary disappointment, fused with horrified disgust – whereas I (apparently) have a particularly gusty sigh I reserve for his unsought opinions about the 10 o’clock news.
Then again, we also have stupid shared jokes that nobody else would understand (one revolves around a Glaswegian barman we met) and he makes me laugh several times a day by talking to the dogs in silly voices.
Yes, we’ve been on some lovely holidays, had some wonderful moments that stand out – but if we were parted, they’re not what I’d miss.
I’d miss the cups of tea, the fact he brings me flowers when I jokingly add “Flowers for Flic to show my adoration” to the shopping list, our ability to sit watching TV silently for hours, yet he’ll know exactly when I need him to pause and explain a plot twist.
I’d miss all the tiny things that annoy us, and make us laugh, and weave the colourful, moth-eaten tapestry of a marriage.
Like life, marriage is interesting, funny, difficult, predictable, surprising, depressing, boring, inspiring, sad, cheerful – and long.
In one scene in Marriage, Emma is worried. “Don’t think about it,” says Ian. “OK,” says Emma, sarcastically. “I’ll do that.”
I’ve had this exact exchange. And it’s oddly reassuring to know middle aged couples everywhere, both real and fictional, are having it too.
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