What I miss is the Tuesday, not any of the dramatic parts

What I miss is the Tuesday. Not the dramatic parts, which I could take or leave. Tuesday, when I did the ironing while she went through the week's diary out loud, and nothing at all was said that would have meant anything to a stranger listening. That was five years, and it ended in February when she moved to Yorkshire to look after her mother.

Fifty eight, north London, I look after a building for a living, which suits me exactly, being a job made entirely of small responsibilities that nobody notices until they have not been done.

So what I am asking for is another Tuesday. A standing evening, jobs that are mine, a woman who tells me what she wants done and notices when it has been. I am not asking anybody to be a new version of what I had. Comparing is the surest way to ruin a thing and I know it.

I am good at ironing, laundry, small repairs and being quiet in a room while somebody else works. I am not good at conversation with strangers, which is largely why this has taken me four months to write and two evenings to send.

No money in either direction. Not looking for anything at short notice, since the entire appeal for me is that it happens on the same day every week. Not looking to be somebody's second choice while she waits for better, which I would rather establish now. And not looking to talk about the last five years for a while yet.