I have a van, a free Saturday, and a preference for being told what to do

I have a van, and in this city that turns out to be worth more than anything else about me. The tip run. The flat pack from the retail park. The airport at four in the morning. The sister who needs a sofa moving across town on a wet Sunday. I have done all of it and I would rather do it for somebody who expects it than for friends who then feel they owe me something.

Fifty two, Stockport, deliveries for a builders yard, on the road by six and finished by three. Never married, living alone with a dog who comes everywhere with me.

What I want is a standing arrangement rather than a favour I get asked for. A day of the week that is hers, a list, and a standard about how a job is done rather than only whether it got done. I am fussy about work and I would like somebody fussier than me.

I did this for four years for a woman over in Bolton until her circumstances changed. What made it work is that she never once asked whether I minded. She told me when and what, and the not being asked is the whole of the point.

No money in either direction, including fuel, which gets offered and which I always refuse. What I do not want is to be somebody's emergency number. I want the boring Tuesday, not the crisis.