I wrote back to ask what was wrong with my letter and she told me

After a polite no, I wrote back once and asked, genuinely, what had been wrong with it. Most people would not answer that. She did, in about six lines, and it was the most useful thing that has happened to me in six years of this.

What she said, roughly, was that my letter had been an argument. That I had spent four paragraphs explaining why I would be a good choice, and that reading it felt like being sold something rather than being written to. She said she could not tell what I was actually like from any of it, only what I thought my advantages were.

Forty two, northern quarter, six years in, two short dynamics and a lot of dead conversations.

So: no argument this time. I am a bus driver. I have been for nineteen years. I like it, which surprises people. I am methodical to a fault, I do not drink, and the best day of my week is Sunday morning when nothing is expected of me and I fix things in the flat.

What I want is a woman who has a house or a life with jobs in it that need doing on a schedule, and who is particular about how. I would like to be checked and told when it is not right.

I have no advantages to list. That was the whole problem last time.