How Owning a Flat Is Getting in the Way of My Getting Married

At the age of thirty, I finally managed to buy myself a two-bedroom flatright in the heart of Bristol. I live there alone, and up until now, I havent found a possible husband or wife. But shall I tell you, in my opinion, the main reason for my struggles with relationships? Its because I have my own flat. In England these days, its a peculiar thinga woman being both independent and elegant at once. If I think about it, all my would-be suitors fall into two strange tribes:

The first lot say: Youve got your own flat? Brilliant, lets shack upnothing to bother with! These are the men who dont want to make the slightest effort and are perfectly happy to tuck themselves into a life already set up for them. Me already having somewhere to live is considered a jackpot. He’s ready for marriage and children, provided nothing really changes for him. Such a chap isn’t interested in climbing the career ladder, or earning extra quid. The matter of shelter solved, he doesnt see the point in getting a car since, if its for the family, mine will do. Why bother wanting more in life?

When I talk to these men, it feels less like courting a partner and more like agreeing to care for a son. Id be expected to feed, pamper, and look after him, then fret over whether hed run off somewhere. I dont see the allure in a happiness like that. Honestly, Id rather have a cat and spend my free time indulging in my hobbies.

Then, theres the second lot: Youve got your own flat? Oh, Id rather not come over, best to live with my parents still, or perhaps lets move to the countryside. We could always sell your flat, buy something together… That last suggestion is my favourite. Heres me, having wrestled the housing market for years only to sell up, and then spend a couple of decades slaving under another mortgage. Not that my potential husband would pay it himself, mind you. The sense is that since I have a decent wage, Ill foot the bill, and hell help out whenever he can. If I go on maternity leave? Well, clearly, the idea is well finally have children when the mortgage is paid off and Im already past forty. I ought not to burden my husband with my worries so he can carry on living blithely, free of bother.

More and more, I find myself thinking it would be simpler just to adopt a toddler from an orphanage than to find a man who isnt afraid of changing nappies. Honestly, even if I got married, Id probably still have to take care of myself, sort all my own problems, and love myself the most. So why would I even need a husband, really?

Right now, my flat is my kingdomand so is my life. The place looks wonderful, theres ample space for me and whatever hobby I dream up next. Sometimes, I do wish I had a proper family or someone to love, but reality always seems to shatter that daydream sooner or later. Let me tell you about something that happened to me just the other week.

Id gotten to know a man and found myself falling for him, and it seemed he fancied me too. We were lounging in my flat, watching a film, when the desire for takeaway hit usit had to be pizza. I thought, for once, perhaps hed take care of that bit of the evening. To be fair, he did: he went out to meet the delivery lad and paid for the pizza. Only thing is, he used the tenner Id handed him to do it. Just like that, all pretence of interest evaporated. After that, so did my feelingscompletely.

Maybe Im to blame. My mates say I never should have offered to pay for the pizzacurious as I was to see whether hed accept the cash or not. It was hardly about the money. But in the end, it really isnt ever about the money, is it?