When rideshare and delivery apps talk about flexibility, they're talking about flexibility for themselves.
Flexibility to push propaganda to avoid regulation and put drivers like me in harm's way.
We regularly face abuse and threatening behaviour and, at the same time, risk of having our accounts deactivated if a customer makes a false complaint, or if we cancel or fail to complete orders - even if it's because we feel unsafe.
I've been forced to flee a drunk man to whom I was legally not allowed to provide alcohol. I returned to my car and he banged on the side until I drove away.
Another time, I picked up an order for an energy drink and chocolate at 11pm. The customer wanted to change the delivery location to a park. I refused, worried about putting myself in a dangerous situation.
But he kept calling and harassing me. I told him to contact the platform's customer support, and they told him to contact me again to change the delivery location.
Despite reporting aggressive customers like this, nothing happens; delivery platforms keep putting us in situations where we might get assaulted.
I've relied on the gig economy for nearly five years after arriving in Australia in 2018 to follow my wife, who was studying nursing.
Migrants just want to be treated fairly and I did not expect to come to Australia to end up in an unregulated, unsafe industry.
When we ask politicians to ensure food delivery drivers and riders have safe working conditions, companies will spruik the flexibility they supposedly offer.
But we need to ask: flexibility for who?
Yes, I have the right to go offline and reject jobs when I want or need but do that at the risk of being deactivated by the algorithm at a moment's notice.
When that happens, I am at the mercy of an automated online appeal system with little, if any, human interaction.
Pay varies significantly between apps - some paying less than half the rate per job - each of which rely on their own payment methods that are not transparent.
They can decrease payments or change terms in the contract whenever they like, and the only choice we have is to accept the new terms or stop working for them.
They run "bonus" schemes where we are pushed to deliver high volumes within short time frames to get us working faster during peak times. But at the same time as we're racing to get the bonus, the usual payment per delivery is decreasing.
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I once saw a friend asked to make 480 deliveries in just four days - that's impossible to do safely.
After expenses and the app's cut, I end up with about $50,000 a year, and this is after working 70- to 80-hour weeks. That is simply not enough money to cover exorbitant rent and fuel costs, not to mention tax and superannuation requirements.
A lot of gig economy workers earn less than the minimum wage and feel pressured to take on more jobs than they can handle. They'll push themselves too hard with 12 to 15-hour days to make that extra buck because they're one car breakdown away from being broke or homeless. It's a recipe for disaster.
Thirteen delivery drivers and riders have died since 2017. In August alone, two riders died within three weeks of each other, both during the Saturday night peak rush. How many more deaths until we act?
I deliver food to federal Parliament about twice a week, so politicians and their staff know that we exist. But where do we exist in legislation?
Drivers like me are fed up with the absence of industry minimum standards, protections afforded to employees, and our inability to push back against exploitation.
We put ourselves at risk - physically, mentally, financially and when it comes to job security - every day in ways that traditional workers simply do not have. But, to the app, I am a replaceable number.
So, there is flexibility, but not for me.
- Nabin Adhikari is a 27-year-old food and parcel delivery driver and Transport Workers' Union delegate in Canberra. He moved to Australia from Nepal in 2018.
