Okay my love affair with the personal ads in the London Review of Books continues with my next three faves:
I’ve divorced better men than you. And worn more expensive shoes than these. So don’t think placing this ad is the biggest come-down I’ve ever had to make. Sensitive F, 34.
Nothing in this world makes sense. Apart from Sphenodon punctatus, last survivor of the reptilian order Rhynchocephalia. If only there were a woman like it–cold, efficient and brutal in love, but also able to feed off small animals, inhabit the breeding burrows of certain small petrels and be in possession of a vestigial third eye. Zoologist, M (51) possibly a little too close to his work. And his mother. Box no. 8643.
Your stars for today: a pretty Cancerian (35) will cook you a lovely meal, caress your hair softly, then squeeze every damn penny from your adulterous bank account before slashing the tyres of your Beamer. Let that serve as a warning. Now then, risotto? Box no. 7394.
These all come from the funniest book about personal ads EVER:
