28May2026 London
Dear Diary,
Why should I become a caretaker for an old man? What will you give me a flat? A car? she asked, without even trying to soften the words. She looked at me as if I were not a man in his prime but a stale product on a supermarket shelf that had been left to lose value. In that instant, for the first time in ages, I wondered whether the world had finally turned upsidedown at fortythree I was already being labelled a geezer, and she was willing to slap a price tag on a relationship straight in my face, no hint, no flirtation, no game.
Im fortythree. Ive never been married. Ive had relationships, two cohabitations lasting two years each normal, alive, without drama, simply didnt work out, and we went our separate ways like adults. I always thought that was a plus: no alimony, no exes, no baggage, no endless comparisons and arguments. Yet, in todays reality, that seems less a virtue than a suspicious anomaly, as if being single means something is wrong with me, a hidden defect that never passed certification.
I decided, bluntly, that it was time. I want a family, a woman by my side beautiful, wellkept, young. Yes, I wont lie: Id like someone under thirty, someone who pleases the eye and makes my friends, without a trace of envy, ask Where did you find her? I see nothing shameful in that; after all I am a man who earns, owns a flat in Camden, drives a modest Ford Fiesta, has a steady income, doesnt drink or smoke, looks after himself, and, as far as I could tell, should be a decent prospect on the market.
But the market, it turns out, has been playing by a different set of rules for years, and I found myself not as a buyer but as a product and not even a very popular one.
**First date** Emma, twentysix, we met through a dating app, chatted for a week. She laughed at my jokes, wrote youre interesting, its easy with you, and I began to think perhaps this could be a normal acquaintance, no strings, just human contact. The moment we met, however, the conversation slipped into another realm.
She sized me up, unflinchingly, and after barely fifteen minutes asked:
What car do you drive?
I answered.
Do you own a flat?
I answered.
How much do you earn?
At that point I realised this was not a date but an interview, and I wasnt even a candidate but an asset being tested for liquidity. The most striking thing was her composure she asked those questions as calmly as one might ask whether I prefer tea or coffee.
When I finally turned the table and asked, What are you looking for in a relationship? she smiled and replied, Comfort. I need a man who can meet my needs. No coyness, no hints, just a price list.
**Second date** a twentyfouryearold named Cressida, stunning and impeccably presented the sort of pictureperfect woman you tell yourself is worth the effort. We met at a restaurant in Manchester, I picked up the tab, everything went as expected, and eventually the talk drifted toward the future.
I said, I want a family, children, a stable relationship.
She looked at me calmly and asked, And what can you give?
I was taken aback.
What do you mean?
She pressed on, You want a young woman, right? She has choices. Why should she pick you?
Then the conversation took a turn that finally flipped my brain upside down.
Youre older, she continued, so you must compensate with resources a flat, a car, money, a certain lifestyle. Otherwise whats the point?
I tried to argue that it wasnt just about cash, that there are feelings, compatibility, respect. She simply shrugged, Those things are secondary. The basics come first.
And then, in that cool tone, she said, Why should I be a caretaker for an old man? She added, If you want someone young, you have to match that. I left the restaurant feeling as if Id been dismantled, parts listed, and priced on a market board.
The worst part isnt that these were isolated incidents; its the system they reveal.
**Third story** broke me completely. A twentysevenyearold named Mabel had initiated the chat, was eager, asked questions, flirted, and I began to think perhaps not every encounter was bleak. Then she sent a voice note:
Listen, lets be straight. I need a man who will support me. I dont want to work herself to the bone. If youre not ready, dont waste either of our time.
I asked, What do you offer in return?
She laughed, Me?
That laugh hit me like a hammer. Me turned into a product, a service, an allinclusive package that required payment up front. The absurdity was that they seemed genuinely unaware of how wrong it sounded.
They dont hide, they dont play games they lay out the terms, and if you dont meet them, youre simply written off, no emotion, no regret, as an unsuitable option.
And the most ironic thing? I had honestly thought the problem lay with women that they were spoiled, that their expectations were inflated, that they were mercenary, that they only wanted money. The more dates I went on, the more I listened, observed, and analysed, the clearer it became: the fault isnt only theirs.
I arrived at this market expecting to choose, yet I was the one being chosen. I wanted youth, beauty, convenience. They wanted security, stability, profit. I chased looks; they chased resources. In that logic everything is honest, just uncomfortable.
It hurts to realise youre not unique, not special, not the one, but just another item being compared, evaluated, and discarded. The most painful part isnt the rejections; its the moment you understand youre being seen not as a man but as an offer, with conditions, limits, a release date. And perhaps I truly am late.
Maybe I should have built a family earlier, before everything turned into a transaction. Maybe I lingered too long in the illusion that time was on my side.
Now reality sits squarely in front of me. To get what I want, I must either conform to the markets demands or reshape my own expectations. As for me Im not ready for either path yet.
That, dear diary, is the most unsettling realisation Ive had in years.
