There are ghosts we all carry. Mine is a former Australian barista who, three weeks prior to me moving across to the other side of the world, decided one random Sunday at 7am – without any warning – that a load of issues had suddenly popped up.
It wasn’t about her decision; it was about the way she made decisions like she was ordering for both of us in a restaurant I didn’t even know we were going to. The Labour government? They are her. All over again.
No conversation. No transparency. No sense that there might be other people in the room. Just a sudden thud of decree: “We’re banning upward-only rent reviews,” and “Let’s make inheritance tax a cudgel for the people who make food for our country.” Like my ex with a suitcase packed in secret, they’ve already left the house before they tell you where you’re going.
Let’s be clear: I’m not here to mourn the death of exploitative rent practices or defend millionaires shielding their empires from tax. But this isn’t about ideology. It’s about communication, or the sickening lack of it. In relationships, in government, in life, that’s how trust dies.
Imagine this, you wake up one morning, and suddenly, upward-only rent reviews are gone. Poof. Banned. Done. Announced like a breakup text, emotionless, efficient, no room for questions. “It’s not you, it’s the market.”
For those outside the loop (and believe me, there’s a long queue), upward-only rent reviews have been a standard in commercial leases for decades. They guaranteed landlords a predictable income trajectory, and while sure, they squeezed tenants during economic downturns, they also helped stabilise long-term investment strategies. Pension funds, insurance companies, REITs, all built their castle walls using these leases as bricks.
Then Labour waltzes in, bans them overnight, and doesn’t even send flowers.
The idea sounds noble in isolation, protect small businesses, right? But what they have actually done is spook the very investors we need to revive our empty high streets, to get that spark back in the UK economy. They’ve created uncertainty. A toxic, knee-buckling form of it. Now landlords are rethinking how they write leases, how they price them, how long they’ll commit. You’ve replaced one problem with five new ones, and nobody thought to call the tenants, landlords, or legal professionals to discuss it.
The annoying part, this is how my ex handled conflict. Found a problem, panicked, and torched the building instead of fixing the pipes. Didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t trust that you’d understand. Labour’s doing the same thing. They think they know better. They think communication is an inconvenience.
Then there’s the inheritance tax plan for farmers, or rather, the giant question mark floating above it.
Agriculture in Britain is already on life support. Farmers struggling to get by, now being forced to sell farmland at a loss or sitting on machinery they can’t shift. The last thing this sector needs is more death tax ambiguity, but that’s what we got. A whisper here. A headline there. No roadmap. No stakeholder briefings. Just a sense of dread like a phone buzzing with the words, “We need to talk.”
The real sting? It’s not just about the tax rate. It’s about not knowing how or when it will change. Or if it even will. That’s the paralytic. People in rural Britain are holding back on sales, transfers, and estate planning because the rules are shifting like sand in a windstorm. One minute you’re prepping for one outcome, the next you’re filing for legal shelter in the Isle of Man.
Nobody minds paying their share, at least, nobody in the real world who owns two brain cells and a shopfront. But they do mind walking blindfolded into a minefield, and our Prime Minister is secretly placing landmines for the future. If you’re going to change the rules, tell us. If you’re going to shock the market, hold a press conference, or at a minimum, speak to the people well in advance and get their opinions. Stop writing policy like it’s a break-up note slipped under the door.
I didn’t expect to fall in love with a government. Nobody does. But I did expect a bit of courtship. Maybe a drink, a press release, a proper policy paper. Something with eye contact. Instead, Labour has slipped into this relationship like a partner who assumes you already know what they’re thinking. Spoiler alert: We don’t. We’re not mind readers. We’re people with payrolls, families, mortgages, shops, and leases.
Governance, like love, is about respect. It’s about picking up the phone, explaining your decisions, even when they’re unpopular. It’s about saying, “Hey, this might sting, but here’s why we’re doing it. Here’s the plan. Here’s how we’ll help you through it.” But that’s not what we’ve gotten from Labour. What we’ve gotten is silence. Or worse: smug certainty.
This government doesn’t speak. It pronounces.
I’m only young, however, I’ve been to enough countries, worked with many people, and been through many redundancies and company reshuffles to know that idealism, without empathy, is just another form of tyranny. Labour’s current style, bold decisions, no debate, all wrapped in moral superiority, feels less like leadership and more like someone doing karaoke of their better self.
My ex used to say, “I did it for us.” Right before vanishing with no explanation. Labour’s starting to sound the same. “We banned this for fairness.” “We’re taxing that for justice.” But whose fairness? Whose justice? And why won’t you return our calls? When you govern like nobody else’s opinion matters, you stop being a leader. You become a solo act. And we all know how those end.
If there’s a moral here, and I’m honestly not sure there is, it’s this, communication isn’t optional. Not in love, not in kitchens, and certainly not in government. You don’t win trust by ambush. You don’t fix broken markets by pulling the rug out without warning. You fix them by talking, listening, explaining. You fix them by treating people like partners, not pawns.
The Labour government reminds me too much of the worst kind of relationship. The one where you’re the last to know what’s happening. Where you’re told to be grateful while everything you counted on gets rearranged in silence.
I forgave my ex eventually. Time has a way of softening sharp edges. But politics? Property? People’s livelihoods? There’s no time for emotional hangovers here. We need answers. We need stability. And above all, we need to be talked to like grown-ups.
