My offer is your admin, and I am unreasonably good at it

My offer is administration. The tax return, the insurance renewals, the pile on the table that has been there since March, the phone calls nobody wants to make. I am extremely good at it, and doing it for somebody I answer to is more satisfying to me than anything else in my week.

Forty four, south of the river, I work in compliance, unmarried, living alone with a cat who dislikes me. I did exactly this inside one arrangement before, for three years, and the woman I did it for once called me her second brain, which I have thought about a good deal more than she probably intended.

Nothing about this is paid and nothing sexual is required by it. If it became a relationship in time I would be glad, but I am not attaching that as a condition, because I have watched men attach it as a condition and then quietly resent the whole thing.

What I want in return is standards and attention. A deadline I am held to. Being told on the day, plainly, when I have got something wrong. Being trusted with something that matters, which is an odd thing to want and I have given up explaining it.

Not looking to handle anybody's money, and I would refuse if offered, because that is a line I will not go near with a person I have recently met. Not looking for a woman who simply wants a free accountant. Not looking for anything that has to be kept secret from everyone in her life, given that half of it involves her post.