**Diary 12April**
Im James Whitaker, fiftytwo, divorced for fifteen years and settled enough to consider myself a proper oldtimer with my own flat in a quiet suburb of Manchester, a steady job at a shipping firm, two weeks of holiday a year and a respectable circle of mates. In the evenings I can spoon vanilla icecream straight from the tub while bingewatching the latest series on Netflix until two in the morning. Weekends are for sleeping in, leaving a coffee mug on the kitchen table and ignoring any lecture about tidying up. I dont feel obliged to rustle up a Sunday roast if Im not in the mood, and, most importantly, nobody leans over my shoulder asking, Whats for dinner tonight?
Strangely, a lot of men seem to take my independence for a temporary glitch that needs fixing with their presence. First they admire me Youre so independent, interesting, selfsufficient. Then, after a few weeks, it becomes clear that the praise hides a hidden agenda: they hope my selfreliance will one day start working for them.
The first warning bell rang with Victor. Victor was fiftyeight, welldressed, talked about his travels with an air of someone who had read a few guidebooks, and could maneuver a napkin at a restaurant without spilling tea a skill that, after fifty, feels like a badge of honour. We dated for about a month: cinema, walks along the River Irwell, coffee shops, weekend trips to the Lake District. One evening he dropped a line that made me set my mug back on the saucer.
Listen, could you come over after work and?
Why?
Just to cook something.
I asked for clarification. What do you want me to cook?
Dinner.
Victor confessed he was tired of living alone not emotionally, but practically. The fridge was a silent, empty menace; the cooker refused to make a proper stew without a second pair of hands; the washing machine seemed to demand a human operator. It dawned on me that he was treating a relationship as a form of outsourced domestic service.
Victor, why dont you just cook for yourself? I asked.
He looked at me as if Id suggested he perform openheart surgery.
Well, youre a woman, arent you?
A concise, classic excuse that shuts down any further questioning, if you dont overthink it.
Next came Simon, fiftyfive, a man who loved to rant about golddigging women. It was his favourite pastime. Any conversation, after roughly seven minutes, spiralled into a tale of how hed been used for his cash. The irony was rich, considering he drove a car older than most university freshmen and counted every penny at the supermarket checkout.
On our sixth date he invited me over.
Come over Saturday.
Alright.
Pick up some groceries on the way.
What kind?
For dinner, of course.
I still think Simon was an underrated mastermind. Not many can devise a date where the woman buys the supplies, delivers them, cooks the meal and then thanks the host for the invitation.
Simon, whos paying for the groceries?
Why would that matter?
What do you mean?
You have a job.
It became obvious that the word mercenary was reserved for everyone except himself.
After a few more encounters I saw a pattern. They liked my flat, my tidy living space, the fact that I always had tea, clean towels, fresh sheets and a working boiler. They liked my life. Yet most were convinced that once a relationship began I should expand my service to include them.
Victor, the last one, was the most amusing. He launched into a discussion about cohabitation with the enthusiasm of someone who had just discovered a way to cut his living costs.
Imagine how smart it would be to live together.
When a man opens with smart, a woman my age reaches for the calculator.
What do you mean?
One fridge, one internet bill, one council tax.
For whom is it smart?
For us.
I smiled.
Victor, where are you living now?
In a rented flat.
And me?
In my own place.
So the arithmetic suddenly got interesting.
Youd stop paying rent, move in with me, slash expenses and be happy?
Yes.
And wheres my benefit?
He fell silent for a couple of minutes, his mind clearly wrestling with a calculation he wasnt prepared to solve.
The most laughable episode involved Geoffrey, sixtyone, a very proper gentleman, exhausted by solitude.
Its hard being alone, he confessed.
I nodded sympathetically.
Its easy for me, he added, then looked bewildered.
Men usually expect a sympathetic response a shared sigh, a nod of solidarity. When a woman calmly says shes fine on her own, the usual script glitches.
So heres the crux: I do need a partner. Not to wash his shirts, iron his trousers, cook Sunday soups, hunt for lost socks under the sofa, or sit through endless stories about why he cant book a doctors appointment himself. I want someone for conversation, travel, theatre, a good night out, intimacy, laughter and shared emotions. Not for a permanent place at my kitchen table.
Men have called me selfish, spoiled, overly independent, saying I dont know how to build a relationship. Yet none could explain why a partnership must automatically mean extra chores for the woman. Why does the man become a companion, confidante, lover, housekeeper and chef all at once, while the woman is expected to consider his mere presence a reward?
Sometimes I think many men simply havent caught up with how the world has changed. They still cling to rules that made sense thirty years ago, when a woman might have found it easier to accept an inconvenient marriage than to stay single. Today, women my age often have careers, homes, friends, grownup children, mortgages paid off and lives that run smoothly. When a man appears, the question becomes: will my life be better with him?
If the answer is no, why bother?
So, yes, Im honest. I need a woman for the weekends. For a full life Im already wellsorted. And you know what the strangest part is? Every time I say that, men get offended. Yet, if you think about it, its the most sincere compliment I can give a relationship: I want someone by my side not because I cant cope without them, but because I enjoy their company.
Living together just to provide a free chef, cleaner and life manager? No, thank you. That vacancy was filled fifteen years ago and I have no plans of readvertising it.
**Lesson:** In our mature years, relationships are no longer about survival; theyre about mutual enrichment. If a partnership costs more in effort than it returns in joy, its not worth pursuing. Choose company that adds value to your life, not one that merely adds to your todo list.
