Love in the noughties is paranoid.
The London Review of Books has just released They Call Me Naughty Lola, a book collecting some of the literary journal's most hilarious, bizarre personal ads. (Sample: "Romance is dead. So is my mother. Man, 42, inherited wealth.") I attended the book launch/singles night last week and you can read all about it in today's Post.
A few of my favourites ads that didn't make it into the sidebar:
- Not everyone appearing in this column is a deranged cross-dressing sociopath. Let me know if you find one and I'll strangle him with my bra. Man, 56. Box no. 3221.
- Save it -- anything you've got to say can be said to my lawyer. But if you're not my ex-wife, why not write to box no. 5377. I enjoy vodka, canasta, evenings in, and cold, cold revenge.
- Slut in the kitchen, chef in the bedroom. Woman with mixed priorities (37) seeks man who can toss a good salad. Box no. 7421.