An hour on the floor while somebody gets on with her evening

What I want is to kneel, in silence, in a room where somebody is getting on with her evening, once or twice a week. I have never worked out how to describe that without sounding either holy or absurd. It is neither. It is the only thing I have found that quietens my head.

Forty seven, north London, I teach music. One arrangement where this was allowed to be the whole of it, three years, ended when she remarried and moved away. Two others where it was treated as a warm up for something else, and both were quietly unhappy.

Nothing sexual is involved and I am not being modest about that. There is no scene at the end of the hour. She reads, or works, or watches something, and I am there and quiet, and afterwards I make tea and go home.

In exchange I am useful. I repair instruments, I am a patient listener, and I will drive anywhere at short notice. I am not asking to become a fixture in anybody's life beyond that hour, although if it grew over years I would not object.

No money in either direction, ever. Not looking for a woman who would need persuading that this counts as anything. Not looking to be watched by a third person. And not looking for somebody who will agree and then find the silence unbearable, which has happened once and which I completely understand.