A Netflix divorce saved our marriage
It’s 9.30pm, the kids are in bed and I’m curled up in my attic bedroom, watching the sublime Call My Agent on my tablet by the light of a Diptyque candle. Meanwhile, my husband Michael is downstairs watching Star Trek on TV, equally content to be alone. We haven’t had an argument and our marriage isn’t in trouble. In fact, it’s the healthiest it’s been in years. And it’s all thanks to our decision to never watch television together, for the good of our relationship.
Like many couples, we had a rocky start to lockdown. With our social lives cancelled, our sofa became the default option and the site of nightly arguments. I like new drama. He likes classic films. We couldn’t even agree on a news channel: I like the BBC while he prefers Russia Today (goodness knows why – he’s from Ealing!). I started to overanalyse everything. Did his reluctance to watch Ghosts with me signal a profound incompatibility? Did we actually have anything in common any more?
Things came to a head after a nerve-shredding rainy day of house arrest with our two fractious daughters (aged eight and 12). We’d bickered over something petty as usual – the best place to dry out the kids’ wellies – and after dinner, we sat down to a Channel 5 programme about the sinking of the Titanic. Michael is obsessed with that bloody ship and I’ve sat through a lot of films about it. As the credits rolled, I thought, if he mansplains the malfunction of the watertight compartments again I’m going to scream.
Seconds later, he cleared his throat. ‘The thing about the watertight compartments was…’
Before he could finish the sentence, I exploded. ‘I already know about the sodding watertight compartments! I’m going to bed!’
Five minutes later, he put his head around our bedroom door. ‘Do you think that was an overreaction?’
Well, yes. By then, I did. But as with most ‘petty’ marital rows, this had its roots in something bigger. It all came flooding out. With all the juggling we’d both been doing, our lives had become a series of compromises, and by the end of each day I needed to be utterly selfish, and watch only what I wanted.
My husband mulled this over, then brightened. ‘Does this mean I never have to watch Scandal again?’ I tried not to take his rejection of the greatest TV show ever made personally. ‘I suppose so.’ He grinned. ‘Brilliant.’
And thus began our ‘Netflix divorce’. We didn’t set rules, just agreed that our default would be watching what we wanted separately.
Ironically, our early relationship was based on a shared love of culture. We met 20 years ago and our courtship involved binge-watching The League of Gentlemen into the small hours. He introduced me to the original ’70s Poldark; I got him into Sex and the City.
The rot began to set in though when I sat through the whole of his beloved classic sci-fi show Blake’s Seven, secretly bored senseless. But for years I gritted my teeth, pretended to enjoy his shows – and I know he did the same for me. Finally admitting we weren’t screen compatible was liberating.
My friends, however, weren’t convinced. With TV watching such an established part of coupledom, they have taken our Netflix divorce as a portent of marital doom. When Normal People dropped, and I mentioned that I’d watched it alone, my friend acted as though I told her that Michael and I were having a trial separation. ‘But what do you do together?’ they asked.
In fact, we talk a lot more than when we sat in front of the TV together. We have vinyl nights when we listen to music. We catch up during our endless long walks, or in the glacial calm that descends upon the house when the kids are plugged into TikTok and Roblox. Often, ironically, we talk about what we each watched on TV the other night, which opens up conversations… Just not about the Titanic.
Now, when we do spend time together, it feels almost like a date, a deliberate choice rather than a lazy default. And getting excited about spending the evening with someone you’re cooped up with 24/7 is no small thing.
‘Watch Her Fall’ by Erin Kelly is out on Thursday (Hodder & Stoughton)
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