Dear Diary,
I am a bit of a relic, still dreaming of a proper marriage. These days most women seem content with a single sausage rather than dragging a whole pig into the house why bother when a modest bite will do? Sausages of every flavour now line the shelves, and even casual cohabitation is welcomed without the shame it once carried. Morality, pride and propriety feel like antique furniture, useful perhaps for decoration but not for everyday life.
Even the lazy old Mr. Bland isnt frowned upon any more; after all, his estate sends him a steady allowance, making him the quintessential rentier. If you handed a smartphone to a middleaged clerk like Ilya Ivanov, suddenly hed be hailed as a successful vlogger with a bright future. As for marriage, the rules have loosened: rendezvous in hotels, shortterm rentals, even guest marriages where couples swear at the registry office only when they feel like it. Who knows what will happen after the ceremony? Once, a missing sock or a lousy cabbage soup was considered a disaster; now we worry about infantilism, momcomplexes and endless nothingdoing on the part of our partners, especially the gentlemen.
Emily was a pleasant exception attractive, unenhanced by any modern bodytuning, educated at a reputable university, and holding a respectable job that paid a decent salary in pounds. Yet, men seemed to glance past her, strolling past in tidy rows to form unions with others, stepping onto the same old traps. It wasnt that there were no men at all she was quite pretty just that none of them reached the registry office. She was nearing thirty, and a whisper from the old days still hovered: not far from motherhood, a phrase that once meant early twenties, now stretched to sixty for todays young mums. Emily didnt want to bear children alone, though.
She also trusted horoscopes more precisely, astrological forecasts, the clever tricksters way of cashing in on peoples hopes. In these uncertain times, every prediction seemed bright: On Tuesday morning a fateful meeting with a wealthy entrepreneur awaits you. So she kept a spare toothbrush in her bag, just in case his intentions turned serious.
Emily, a Sagittarius, searched for a partner whose sign matched hers Aries and Leo also belong to fire, but Sagittarius is the most eventempered among them. Her first great love sparked in the first year of university an age now dismissed as nurseryschool level, yet teenagers do cling to ideas about love and sex, even if the school curricula have evolved beyond the old lessons. After that, reality hit: bills, transport, food. For the first time she had to shop for groceries herself, no longer relying on a family fridge. Her parents had supported her financially, but now sharing a flat with a boyfriend meant the money stretched thin.
When David moved in, Emilys grandmothers gift of a flat on her sixteenth birthday finally proved useful. David, perplexed, asked, Arent you going to buy the food? She replied, Why should I? The fridge is yours, Im not the landlord. He protested, But its my fridge and Im not the master here! Emily, ever resourceful, said, If thats the issue, I can hand you full control manage the household as you wish! Predictably, David vanished from the course they shared, an ironic twist for a firesign Sagittarius.
The next boyfriend appeared in her third year, this time a bit older Sergey, over thirty, recently divorced, eager to marry. He declared, Well wed, love! Yet his employment was unstable; the country was still struggling, and permanent jobs were scarce. He complained endlessly about bosses, absurd demands, and a grueling schedule while surviving on occasional deliveries. Emily suggested, Perhaps you could work as a courier? He replied proudly, Im an analyst. She countered, Can an analyst not deliver parcels? He shrugged, Ask your mother for help, claim temporary hardship. She sighed, Time stretches on, as Mayakovsky would say.
Their conversations grew tangled with linguistic jokes mispronounced names, nonsense words, and endless puns. Sergey, a Capricorn, was reputedly diligent and reliable, yet his quirks wore on Emily. Eventually they met Len, a Taurus with a grounded, earthy nature, who also believed in zodiac signs. Their bond formed on an astrology forum and blossomed into genuine affection. Len, however, kept calling their signs zodiacs in a teasing way, prompting Emily to wonder, Why the deliberate distortion? He laughed it off, Its funny! Her grandmothers wisdom echoed in her mind: Dont let a man think hes complete without you.
Lens aunt, a former KGB operative, once called a friend Zerdinsky at a family gathering, causing uproar. The old man with Polish roots shouted, Jesus, Mary! and chased the offender out. That incident, like many others, highlighted the absurdity of their social rituals.
When Len, a Taurus, proved too sensitive, Emily met Peter, a Virgo, whose practical, thrifty nature matched her own. He was divorced, childfree, welleducated, with a modest onebed flat and a good sense of humour. Their compatibility seemed perfect for a future together. They applied to move in, and Peter asked to be registered at her address. Why? Emily asked. Youre already registered at your own place! he replied, baffled. Because were a family now, everything should be shared. She recalled a joke: Could you transfer your flat to me? Oh, sorry, wrong start do you believe in God? Their conversation drifted from love to logistics.
Peter eventually suggested, Shall we go to the cinema? Emily agreed, relieved that he had already put down a deposit for a restaurant reservation. Yet she reminded him, Did you register me, Pete? We never finished that. He stared, hesitated, and left, leaving her to wonder if they would ever formalise anything. The thought lingered: many of Emilys friends had married in some sense one for half a year, another for a year while the third faded away like a joke.
Emily herself, now past thirty, stopped chasing the altar. She earned a promotion, swapped her grandmothers studio for a tidy twobed flat, bought a secondhand car, and took a short holiday. She concluded that life had turned out well. Modern medicine now allows women to have children up to sixty, and the market is still flooded with sausages of every sort.
So here I am, diary, watching the world change while I learn to be content with what I have, and perhaps, one day, a love that isnt measured by registers or horoscopes, but by everyday kindness.
