June 14, 2025 Diary
Im a thirtytwoyearold lad from Manchester, and Ive always watched the world change from my flat above the chip shop. The younger women today seem to have a different outlook on marriage. They whisper, Why bring home a whole sow when one sausage will do? And indeed, sausages of every sort and size crowd the supermarkets. Cohabitation is now praised rather than frowned upon, no longer a source of shame as it once was.
Back then, we still clung to notions of honour, pride and propriety that now feel as useful as a broken umbrella. Even Mr. Bumble, the idle gentleman from Dickens, is no longer a cautionary taleafter all, his estate kept sending him regular stipends. Give a bloke a smartphone today and hes dubbed a successful vlogger, neatly settled in his own way.
Family life, too, has turned on its head. Couples meet in hotel rooms, paybythehour flats, whatever the market throws at them. Theres even guest marriage nowwhy rush straight to the registry office? One never knows what quirks a partner might reveal after the vows. Small grievances used to be tragiclost socks, a botched cabbage soupbut today the spectres are childish dependence, mummycomplex, and endless nothingeverworksout talk from both sexes.
Emily was a pleasant exception to the trend. She was attractive, without any of the newage bodytuning fixes, and possessed a respectable university degree and a decent salary. Yet men passed her by, strolling past in tidy rows, pairing up with others and stepping straight onto the same old fools path.
It wasnt that Emily lacked suitors; she was pretty enough, but none ever reached the point of a civil ceremony. She was nearing thirty, and the old saying about the first mother now translates to the first mum before sixty in todays longlived society. She didnt want to have a child alone.
Emily, like many of us, still glanced at horoscopes. Not the vague star signs nonsense, but the more earnest astrological forecastspurely a clever ploy by opportunists to nick our hardearned cash. In these uncertain times, the predictions were all sunshine: On Tuesday morning a fateful encounter with a wealthy benefactor awaits you. So she kept a spare toothbrush handy, just in case.
She sought a partner whose zodiac matched hers: a Sagittarius, a fire sign, supposedly the most eventempered among its peers, alongside Aries and Leo. Her first love blossomed in her first year at universitynow a stage wed liken to nursery school, where eighteenyearold gremlins barely grasp anything. But they did know the basics: where to go and what to avoid. Sex education nowadays is far more straightforward than it once was, so she could ignore the oldfashioned forest of petals and stamens talk.
Financial independence soon knocked on her door. She had to pay for utilities, travel and food herself, no longer relying on a family stash. Her parents had funded her while she lived alone, but two people made the budget tight. When her boyfriend, Vadik, moved in, he balked at the grocery bill.
Shouldnt you be buying the food? he asked, genuinely puzzled.
Why me? she retorted.
The fridge is yours, Im not the owner here, he replied, his logic oddly sound.
Emily, ever resourceful, offered, If its just the shopping, I can hand over the reinsrun the household as you wish.
Vadik vanished after that, no longer greeting her in their shared lecture group. He was a fire sign after allperhaps the stars were aligning against them.
The second suitor appeared in her third year, a man named Simon, a bit older, past his thirties, and serious about marriage. Hed been divorced, but love, they thought, knows no bounds. Yet Simon was perpetually unemployed, a relic of a prepandemic Britain where jobs were still relatively stable. His bosses were a nightmare, the work hours unbearable, and his mood swung like a pendulum.
Emily tried to help. Maybe you could deliver parcels? she suggested timidly.
Im an analyst, he boasted.
Cant an analyst be a courier? she countered. Drive, analyse, earn a livingwhats the harm? Ive spent my last few pounds on groceries.
Ask your mum, he muttered. Tell her its a temporary setback.
Two months Ive said its temporary, she replied.
Time is a long thing, he quoted Mayakovsky, looking smug.
Emily, quickwitted, retorted, Then stop asking for food! Times are changingmove on!
He erupted, Who told you to move my legs?the first time anyone had ever dared to throw such a phrase at him. Hed never been the one to break up; he was always the breaker.
Simon, a Capricorn, was traditionally hardworking and reliableironically, the very traits he lacked.
Her third encounter was with Len, a fellow astrologer met on an online forum. Their chats blossomed into genuine affection, though Len kept mispronouncing zodiac as zodiyah. Emily asked why, and he laughed it off as just a joke.
Their banter grew strange: Sneaky, Stervadessa, and Reginald Regovitsky spilled from his mouth, a jumble of madeup names that he thought clever in his fortyfirst year. By the time Emily turned twentysix, his nonsense grated on her nerves. Both held good jobs, were single, and Len even had an adult son from his previous marriage.
A scandal erupted at a family gathering when Emilys grandfathera former MI5 officer with Irish rootsheard Len call the historical figure Dzerzhinsky Zerdinski. He burst out, Jesus, Mary! Get out of here, you blighter! The scene was a farce; they were already presenting themselves as a couple.
Len, a Taurus, earthbound and stubborn, clashed with Emilys fiery nature. She then met Peter, a divorced, childfree, charming gentleman with a tidy onebed flat. He was a Virgo, also earthsign, prudent and thriftyexactly the type suited for a steady home.
Peter asked her to register him at her address. Why? she questioned. You already have a place. We need it only if you have nowhere else.
Im already registered, Peter replied, but if were to be a family, shouldnt we share everything?
It reminded Emily of an old joke: Write your flat onto my name, please! She blurted, Do you believe in God? The conversation spiraled into romantic cliches, then back to practicality.
Alright, she said after a pause, Ill register you, and youll register me.
Where? Peter asked, bewildered.
In my flateverythings now joint.
But you dont live there! he protested after a moments thought.
Emily, ever pragmatic, suggested, Then well rotate: one month in mine, one month in yours.
Peter fell silent; he hadnt anticipated that compromise. Neither could she argue further.
After a long pause, Peter finally asked, Shall we go to the cinema?
Certainly, Emily agreed, feeling a weight lifthed already paid a deposit for a dinner venue.
She added, Will you still register me, Pete? Im not sure we finished that bit.
He stared, shuffled, and left without answering. She didnt chase him; the wedding plans had already fizzled.
Two of Emilys friends had marriedone for six months, another for a year, the third in a quiet, jokelike ceremony. Emily herself had lived with a few civil partners for over a month each, and love was there, albeit more about deeds than feelings.
In the end, as the saying goes in some cheeky corners of Britain, There are no bad lads, only bad matches.
Now that Im thirtytwo, promoted at work, and have swapped my grannys cosy studio for a spacious twobed flat, I bought a reliable used car and took a short break in the Lake District. Ive come to realise that life can be quite satisfactory without the pressure of a wedding or a child at any set age. The statutory reproductive age now stretches into the sixties, and the market is brimming with choices, like sausages in a butchers window.
Lesson learned: love may be noisy, messy, and full of mispronounced signs, but a steady partnership built on mutual respect and practical compromise is worth more than any horoscope or societal expectation.
