I am about to be rude, because polite has produced nothing at all

I am going to be rude, because polite has produced nothing. If your message contains the word goddess, a list of things you are into, or a photograph of any part of you, it is already deleted and I did not read the rest. That is not a warning about the future. It is a description of my morning.

Forty five, south of the river, sixteen years of this, and thoroughly out of patience. I work in local government, which has given me an enormous tolerance for tedious process, and that is the only reason I am still on a board at all.

What I want is a man who can write four sentences about himself that a friend of his would recognise. That is the bar. It is on the floor. Roughly one in forty clears it, and the ones who do are usually apologetic about being ordinary, which is currently the most attractive thing that arrives in my inbox.

The relationship I am after is long, domestic and quite strict. I am good at it. I would rather say that plainly than perform mystique at people who will not be here in a month.

Not looking for anyone who wants to be trained. Not looking for a man who calls himself a slave in his opening line and then argues about a Tuesday. Not looking for somebody who needs me angry in order to feel led, because as you can see I manage angry easily, and it is not on offer.