28May2026 Diary
Why should I become a caretaker for an old man? What will you give me a flat? A car?Emily, twentyfour, asked me that flatout when I suggested we get married. She looked at me as if I werent a man in my prime but an expired item on a supermarket shelf, left unsold long enough to lose its price tag. In that moment, for the first time in years, I wondered whether the world had finally turned upside down: at fortythree Im already being labelled a grandpatype, and she isnt shy about sticking a price on a relationshipno hints, no flirtation, no game.
Im fortythree. Ive never been married. Ive had a couple of longterm relationships, two cohabitations lasting two years each. They were ordinary, livedin, without drama; they simply ended as adult decisions, and I always thought that was a plus: no alimony, no exfiles, no baggage, no endless comparisons. Yet, in todays reality, that seems less a virtue than a suspicious anomaly, as if never having wed marks you as defective, a hidden marriage that never passed certification.
I decided it was time. I want a family, a woman by my sidebeautiful, wellkept, young. I wont lie: Id like someone under twentyeight, someone who looks good and makes my friends, without a trace of envy, ask, Where did you find her? I see nothing shameful in that. Im a man who earns, I own a flat in Manchester, I have a decent car, a steady income, I dont drink or smoke, I keep fit, and, as far as I could tell, Im a respectable commodity on the market.
But the market, it turns out, now runs on different rules. Im not the buyer; Im the productone that isnt even in high demand.
**First date** Charlotte, twentysix, met me through an app. We chatted for a week; she laughed at my jokes, wrote youre interesting and its easy with you. I thought this was a normal encounter, no strings attached, just human connection. As soon as we met, the conversation slipped onto a different track.
She looked me over, unapologetically, and within 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 wasnt a date; it was an interview, and I wasnt even a candidate but a asset being tested for liquidity. The strangest part was her calmnessshe asked those questions as naturally as someone might ask, Tea or coffee?
When I turned the table and asked, What are you looking for? she smiled and said, Comfort. I want a man who can meet my needs. No modesty, no hintsjust a price list.
**Second date** Olivia, twentyfour, the pictureperfect type I thought was worth the effort. We met at a restaurant in Brighton; I paid for dinner, as proper. The talk drifted to the future.
I want a family, children, a stable relationship, I said.
She looked at me and replied evenly, And what can you give?
I was taken aback.
What do you mean?
She pressed on, You want a younger woman, right? She has choices. Why should she pick you?
Then she laid it out plainly:
Youre older, so you need to compensate with resourcesflat, car, money, lifestyle. Otherwise, whats the point?
I tried to argue that love, compatibility, respect mattered, but she simply shrugged, Those are secondary. The basics come first.
Then she repeated, Why should I be a caregiver for an old man? She said it calmly, as a fact, and added, If you want a young woman, you have to match her expectations. I left feeling as if Id been dismantled and appraised on a market board.
The most unsettling part isnt the oddballs; its the system itself.
**Third encounter** Sophie, twentyseven, initiated the chat. She was eager, asked questions, flirted, and I began to think maybe things werent all bleak. Then she sent a voice note:
Listen, lets be straight. I need a man wholl support me. I dont want to work myself to the bone. If youre not ready, dont waste either of our time.
I asked, What do you offer in return?
She laughed, Memyself.
That sentence clicked inside me. Myself turned into a product, a service, an allinclusive package with payment up front. The absurdity is that they dont see the problem. They set conditions openly; if you dont meet them, youre written off without emotion, like an unsuitable SKU.
And the irony? I used to blame womenthink theyd gone soft, that they were greedy, that they only cared about money. The more dates I went on, the more I realised the issue isnt just them.
I entered this market expecting to choose, yet I became the one being chosen. I wanted youth, beauty, convenience. They wanted security, stability, profit. I chased looks; they chased resources. In that logic both sides are honest; its just uncomfortable.
It hits hard when you realise youre not a unique individual, not the one, but just another item compared, evaluated, discarded. The hurt isnt in the rejections; its in the moment you understand youre seen not as a man, but as a proposal with terms, conditions, a release date. Perhaps Im simply late.
Maybe I should have built a family earlier, before everything turned into a transaction. Maybe I clung too long to the illusion that time was on my side.
Now the reality is what it is. To get what I want, I must either meet the listed criteria or change my own expectations. And Im not ready for either.
That, I think, is the most unsettling revelation of these recent years.