There is a real sense of anger among many people who are married

Host: The sky over London was the color of bruised pewter, the kind that warned of rain but refused to fall. Streetlights flickered to life one by one, casting amber pools on the pavement slick with the day’s residue. A pub at the corner of Fleet Street glowed warmly — its windows fogged, its voices low and murmuring, a refuge from the cold and the noise outside.

Inside, the fireplace crackled with tired flames, throwing shadows against the walls lined with old photographs and forgotten laughter. Jack sat at the bar, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, a glass of whiskey untouched before him. His face, sharp and tired, reflected the kind of weariness that doesn’t come from work, but from watching the world shift faster than one’s heart can follow.

At the far end, Jeeny walked in, shaking off the rain from her coat, her hair still damp, her eyes soft yet alive with purpose. She spotted Jack and approached — not hurriedly, but like someone who already knew this conversation would matter.

Jeeny: “Philip Hammond once said, ‘There is a real sense of anger among many people who are married that the government, any government, thinks it has the ability to change the definition of an institution like marriage.’”
She slid onto the stool beside him. “You agree with that, don’t you?”

Jack: “I do.” His voice was low, his gaze fixed on the glass. “Marriage isn’t a piece of legislation, Jeeny. It’s an institution, older than any government, older than law itself. You don’t redefine something that sacred.”

Host: The firelight shimmered across the bottles, throwing golden shards into the air. The bartender, a man who had long ago stopped caring about the world’s debates, polished a glass in silence.

Jeeny: “Sacred to whom, Jack? To those who’ve always had the privilege of defining it? Because the thing about institutions is — they start as beliefs, but over time, they become cages.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But naïve. Society needs boundaries. Marriage was meant to create stability — a framework for family, community, continuity. You can’t just shift that framework every time the wind of culture changes direction.”

Jeeny: “And yet, that’s how society grows, isn’t it? Every boundary ever drawn was once called sacred — until someone realized it was unjust. Slavery, segregation, women denied the right to vote — all justified by ‘tradition.’ You think marriage is any different?”

Jack: “Those were crimes against freedom. Marriage is the opposite — it’s commitment. It’s structure. It’s the promise that two people make in the eyes of something greater.”

Jeeny: “And who decides what that ‘something greater’ is? Church? Parliament? The people? Because the last time I checked, love doesn’t ask for permission.”

Host: Jack’s jaw clenched; he turned, his grey eyes catching the light like steel. The pub around them seemed to hush, as if even the walls were listening.

Jack: “You think redefining marriage is about love? It’s about politics. Power. Once you let governments start rewriting moral language, everything becomes negotiable. What’s next — redefining family? Parenthood? Gender itself?”

Jeeny: “It’s already happening, Jack. Not because of corruption, but because people are finally being seen. History doesn’t erase — it evolves.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple. But what about the people who built their lives around that institution as it was? You can’t just tell them their beliefs are obsolete overnight.”

Jeeny: “I’m not asking them to abandon belief. I’m asking them to let others believe differently. The world doesn’t crumble when love expands — it heals.”

Host: The rain began again outside, soft but persistent, tapping against the windows like a quiet protest. Jeeny turned slightly