My ex-partner and I had a ‘break-up ceremony’ – and it wasn’t that weird

This week, I had a break-up ceremony, involving my (now former) partner of six years and 30 of our family and friends. We devised it together as a sort of anti-wedding to separate us gracefully, wanting different things from the future. The language around people “breaking up” or being “dumped” is violent and unilateral, which hadn’t been our experience. We wanted to honour what had been, transition into a “just friends” relationship and convince people that it wasn’t weird.

The latter was the biggest ask. “Break-up ceremony – what white nonsense is this?” asked my friend Charlie, who is white. I believe he was invoking the spectre of Gwyneth Paltrow’s “conscious uncoupling”, hanging over the whole event, like a mist of reiki-infused delusion. But, even a stopped clock and all that. And Jack White and Karen Elson had a joint party to celebrate their divorce, and that’s much cooler company.

It wasn’t all plain sailing. One guest sliced themselves open cutting a baguette, dripping blood all over the floor and into the hummus. I chose not to interpret this metaphorically. Another dissolute acquaintance woke up on a stranger’s sofa in north London 40 minutes before the event and barrelled in last minute, reeking of vodka and apology. There was consternation halfway through the ceremony when a courier arrived, to deliver a kilo of penny sweets I had ordered on Amazon Prime. (The delivery turnover time was shorter than I had anticipated. Too short, really.)

That’s before you get to all the crying. My ex and I broke up last year, but gave ourselves a lot of breathing space before this. Living alone, my stupid heart had been snagging on items of hers and breaking all over again, like stitches that won’t heal. There was sadness for our families, too, over a future that was, then wasn’t. So often, our losses are less witnessed than our gains, and we are left alone to cope. We both spoke a highlight reel of the good times and apologised for the hurts that we caused. We forgave the other; wished them every happiness to come. Mutual friends vowed to support us in our individual lives – none of this “pick a team” stuff. There was a ceremonial untwining of a braid, the separate strings of which we wore as bracelets. (Sadly, a few days later I burned mine, as well as my eyelashes and head hair, in a propane backdraught. But, again, I chose not to interpret this metaphorically.)

And there wasn’t only sadness. It was an unexpectedly, unbelievably hot day, the first day of spring and Bengali new year. People generally accepted the day wasn’t weird – in fact, through blood, sweat and tears, it was incredibly healing. In an alienated, technological time, it feels important to hang on to the ones who really see us. The often-scorned notion of being “friends with your ex” isn’t always possible or advisable. But it’s a rich, unique connection. For those going through something similar, where pardon is at all possible and affection beats in any form, I’d urge you to try.

The day after the event, I noticed someone had watered the neglected basil plant on the windowsill; I think I know who. What had been dying already showed new green and perfume. I’m choosing to interpret it metaphorically.

Why did people keep quiet about David Copperfield’s magic trick?

Of course, the big news is that Kanye West has been writing a philosophy book “in real time”, on Twitter, but it was another story that grabbed me this week. A lawsuit against David Copperfield has revealed the secret behind one of his most famous tricks, in which he vanishes a dozen audience members behind a curtain. (Spoiler alert: do not read on if you don’t want to know the secrets of David Copperfield.) I can, non-exclusively, reveal that Uriah Heep’s scheming ways decimate the fortune of great-aunt Betsey Trotwood. Hang on, I’m thinking of the wrong David Copperfield.

The illusionist’s (retired) signature trick involves Las Vegas audience members being hurried “around corners, outdoors, indoors and through an MGM Grand resort kitchen” by stagehands holding torches, before being reintroduced at the back of the theatre. It’s banal and annoying for the chefs. But there’s a startling implication: the fact we don’t know this already means tens of thousands of random audience members have kept Copperfield’s secret, for 20 years. Why? Do they sign non-disclosure agreements while they’re being run past the colanders?

I was once pulled on to the stage by a club hypnotist, who asked me to impersonate Michael Jackson (not the former Channel 4 executive) and seduce a chair. I did, despite being less hypnotised than a cat staring at a packet of Dreamies. I didn’t want to ruin the show for everyone else. Magicians are socially awkward malcontents, but there’s something about the possibility of magic that audiences feel a responsibility to keep open, while knowing false. It’s a stand-in for the greater mysteries we intuit. We keep their secrets because we need to believe there are more things in heaven and earth (and MGM Grand kitchens) than are dreamed of in our philosophies. Unless the philosophy is written by Kanye: that stuff is copper-bottomed madness.

I’m a fan of the Elon Musk school of office etiquette

Speaking of philosophy, the billionaire Elon Musk’s leaked productivity advice to Tesla employees is the purest I have ever encountered. A scattergun of kamikaze rudeness, his tips include walking out of bad meetings, ignoring bosses, and the best, to “drop off a call as soon as it is obvious you aren’t adding value”. Strange how Musk’s advice on being work-efficient coincides exactly with my instinct to lose every job I’ve ever had. I have never added value to a phone call in my life. I’ve been doing this stuff for years and still await my billions. Where are my billions, Musk?