Twenty seven, nights in a warehouse, and my week is a rota not a diary

Nights in a distribution warehouse, six until six, on a rota that changes every three weeks and gets posted on a Thursday. I cannot commit to a particular evening more than three weeks out and that is the single fact that has ended the one dynamic I have had.

Twenty seven, Stockport, three years in. It lasted five months and she was patient about the rota for four of them and then, entirely reasonably, stopped being.

I have thought about how to present this and there is no way to make it sound easy. What I can offer is that the rota is published, I always know it three weeks ahead, and I have never once been wrong about my own availability. What I cannot offer is a fixed Tuesday.

What I want is an arrangement that lives mostly in writing and in tasks, with meetings arranged around the rota rather than in spite of it. I am good at doing things on my own time and reporting. I am terrible at being spontaneous, because spontaneity is a thing people with normal jobs have.

Money is worth mentioning only in that I have very little of it, and nothing I want costs anything. I am not asking anybody to spend on me and I could not spend on anybody.

What I do not want is to be asked whether I could move to days. I could, for less money, and I need the money, and the question has been asked twice and both times it was the beginning of the end.