They Call Me Naughty Lola Part 1

They Call Me Naughty Lola.

David Rose.

Introduction.

The London Review of Books personal ads began in October 1998, with the simple idea of helping people with similar literary and cultural tastes get together. We hoped the column might be a sort of 84 Charing Cross Road endeavour, with readers providing their own versions of Anthony Hopkins and Anne Bancroft finding love among the bookshelves. The first ad we received was from a man 'on the look-out for a contortionist who plays the trumpet'.

In truth, there are few people who can adequately summarise themselves in the thirty or so words that make up the average lonely-heart ad. There are few products or concepts that can be summarised in the same s.p.a.ce, so it's unreasonable to a.s.sume that a description of all the complexities and subtleties that make up a person can be trimmed down to a couple of abstract sentences. Add to this the many inherent psychological issues at stake in the placing of a lonely heartguilt, nervousness, fear of rejectionand an ad can be an accident waiting to happen or an anticlimactic event that fizzles out into an episode of one's life best forgotten.

Because of the dangers of looking slightly foolish, and because of the difficulties of being concise when talking about ourselves, lonely hearts ads, appearing in many publications throughout the world usually become fairly h.o.m.ogenous statements that often default to bland physical descriptions. Height, weight, eye and hair colour are all standard, but so too is every cliched adjective that can be applied to them. Eyes will be 'dazzling', 'bright', 'seductive', but little else. Advertisers will be 'slender' or 'cuddly', possibly 'flame-haired', or all too often inappropriately compared to a celebrity'looks a bit like George Clooney'. The main factor in the success of garnering responses with this type of ad is the wishful thinking of the reader, who will fas.h.i.+on an image of the advertiser based on what little information has been given together with what it is they've been looking for all these years. The first exchange of photographs, therefore, will often prove disappointing when it's realised that the advertiser isn't Angelina Jolie but an arthritic old sailor with scalp problems.

There are notable exceptions. The New York Review of Books has a remarkably successful lonely-hearts section, and the demographic of readers is quite similar to that of the LRBmiddle-cla.s.s, well-educated, intellectual. Rather than list physical attributes, typically advertisers in the NYRB pitch incredibly positive aspects of their personality. They use their thirty-odd words to talk about things they like: favourite seasons, favourite authors, beaches they're fond of or lakeside walks they enjoy. As a model of lonely hearts it is very encouraging, if at times a little starchy.

The advertisers in the London Review of Books, however, are rarely inhibited by positive thinking and they don't tend to suffer the same degree of nervous overstatement found in other lonely-hearts sections. They have pitched themselves variously over the years as 'bald and irascible' or 'dour and uninteresting' or 'hostile and high-maintenance'. Such a self-denigrating and all too honest approach carries a distinctive note of charm. It's hard, for example, not to fall instantly in love with I'd like to dedicate this advert to my mother (difficult cow, 65) who is responsible for me still being single at 36. Man. 36. Single. Held at home by years of subtle emotional abuse and at least 19 fake heart-attacks. Box no. 6207.

Monday mornings are a regular harvest time for personal ads. In the natural order of things they follow the lonely heart's weekend of solitary wine-drinking in front of Taggart on UK Gold. Consequently, the ads in my post-weekend email inbox tend to have more of a hangover about them than others, or the smoky whiff of a solipsistic Sat.u.r.day night still in full melancholic tilt and hanging heavy in the adjectives. The authors are 'unbeaten', 'down but not out', 'fighters' or 'terminally disappointed'. By mid-week the ads are much less gin-soaked in tone and much less likely to mention the advertiser's preferences for adopting naval ranks in the bedroom. Personally I prefer the weekenders. Apart from anything else they're much chattier when I have to call to say they've given the Ceefax recipe page instead of a valid credit-card number.

People who place small ads are rarely salesmen or advertising creatives. So they often fail to meet the basic principles of advertising. Typically, an ad for, say, a BMW car or a Prada shoe or an insurance scheme has less than half a second to attract the attention of a magazine browser, amid pages of stiff compet.i.tion. This is far more difficult for a lonely heart who doesn't have the resources or expertise to produce a glossy, full-page ad br.i.m.m.i.n.g with clever copy and zippy graphics. But if a personal ad manages in its few words to hold the gaze of the reader a little while longer than its compet.i.tors, then it's a long way down the road to getting a reply. And seizing attention to provoke a reply, rather than actually finding a mate, is initially the point of all personal ads.

The Russian critical theorist Viktor Shklovsky identified the processes of arresting a reader's attention, citing phrases, motifs or concepts that seem incongruous within a surrounding text.1 He used the term ostranenie, or defamiliarisationliterally 'making strange'. It's tempting to venture that advertisers in the LRB personal ads adhere to these early Russian Formalist principles. The casual reader would expect the standard formula of 'Man, leonine looks, 511, regularly works out, enjoys cinema'. Instead they'd get this: On 15 March 1957, Commander J. R. Hunt of the United States Navy landed at Key West Florida in his non-rigid airs.h.i.+p having travelled for 264 hours and 12 minutes without once refuelling. Coincidentally, that's the same length of time as I've spent without once making contact with a woman (apart from my mother, who doesn't count, but who only ever asks me what I'd like for breakfast.i.t's eggs; I like eggs for breakfast, poached, please, on two slices of granary bread). Is this a world record? Answers, please, to 37-year-old male idiot. Box no. 2169.

If ostranenie is their strategy, they are shrewd advertisers indeed and this possibly gives the ads more credit than is strictly warranted. None the less it's all too easy to underestimate the discursive gymnastics behind More than just a personal ad! This is your ticket to a world of pleasure. Write now to Putney care a.s.sistant and weekend league bowler (48). Box no. 7721.

A lonely heart also provides clues and hints for the reader to interpret. The response to each ad depends as much on what can be inferred as on what is explicitly stated, which is often as little as the advertiser's gender and geographic location. In its remaining few words and phrases the ad has to convey a sense of the author's personality; the inferences of the reader are crucial. What is it we can infer from, for example, 'Man, 34, Worcs., WLTM F to 35 with the sort of attributes that make the NetNanny my mother installed on my PC go off like a 1978 Ford Capri discharging up a dinosaur's r.e.c.t.u.m'? There's a PhD's worth of material to be gathered from this ad alone, and at least a year's employment for any newly qualified social worker.

While many LRB personals are similarly off-beat they're not without their share of responses. It doesn't claim to be the most successful lonely-hearts column in the world (far from it) but it has given rise to friends.h.i.+ps, marriages, at least one birth, and at least one divorce after a marriage resulting from an ad in it. There are also plenty of advertisers ready to call in to complain about getting no responses whatsoever despite the LRB enjoying a readers.h.i.+p known in marketing circles to be more responsive than most. This isn't so surprisingwhatever the responsiveness of the readers.h.i.+p, the advertiser still has to do a bit of work. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it avoid talking about its mother or cats: Coming from one of the world's largest coal-producing regions, you'd expect me to litter this ad with clever references to coal and the decline of the coal industry and possibly some nostalgia about my father working in a coal mine and a few anecdotes about accidents and heroism and camaraderie and everyone supporting each other in times of coal-related hards.h.i.+p and crisis. Instead, I'd like to talk about my cats. Gentleman, 55. Likes cats. Box no. 5380.

Advertising for a lover or a soul mate or a marriage partner has always existed in some form or other. But the protocols of advertising in lonely hearts have changed considerably over the years. Lonely hearts from the nineteenth century show men specifying their annual incomes rather than giving any hint of physical appearance; today this would be deemed crude. Nowadays it's also considered coa.r.s.e to be exact about age; women, in particular, are discouraged from stating how old they are, and are advised instead to give the age range of the partner they're seeking. Advertisers in the LRB, however, have no truck with such conventions and will often specify the income required of any prospective partner, their own level of personal debt and their age to the exact day (occasionally in dog years), along with weight, slipper size and favourite type of soup: What's your favourite soup? Mine is mulligatawny. Mulligatawny-liking gentleman (50). Box no. 4401.

Some rudimentary statistical a.n.a.lysis is possible. Whereas women tend to supply the majority of personal ads in other publications, the split is fairly even in the LRB (49 per cent women, 51 per cent men) and the age range reflects that of the readers of the magazine, between thirty-five and fifty-five. Women who specify their employment are likely to work in publicity departments (28 per cent of all named female occupations). Men who cite their occupation are often lecturers (35 per cent of all named male occupations71 per cent of them in the fields of cla.s.sics and history). There have been plenty of scientists, far too many poets and, encouragingly for an increasingly mechanised society, at least two stevedores. Seven per cent of women applying adjectives describe themselves as 'edgy' or 'highly strung' (these account for 83 per cent of those working in publicity departments), while 8 per cent of men mention their mother and 2 per cent enjoy the music of Bachman-Turner Overdrive (of which 63 per cent are forty-two-year-old cla.s.sics lecturers still living at home with their mum). In the early months of the LRB personal column, women and men were equally likely to ask for respondents who were 'intelligent', 'thoughtful' or 'well read'. These days the men are much happier to receive a full medical prescription history rather than a photograph, and the women have long since learned to lower the bar: Hi. I'm am intelligent, attractive, cultured, recently divorced woman in her early forties looking for a man whose maxim in life isn't 'pull my finger' or 'smelt it, dealt it'. Box no. 5022.

In many publications, help is at hand to guide advertisers through the processes and pitfalls of copywriting so as to avoid any devastating faux pas. A lot of newspapers and magazines contract out their lonely-hearts column to agencies that help pen the adverts. Some have simple personality tests and will formulate copy for the advertiser on the basis of the results. The aim is to maximise the number of responses by making sure the advertiser doesn't blow it by mentioning his compulsive gaming habits or her aversion to the colour red or a mishap they had with rabbits during a school trip to Morecambe in 1965. This seems a shame. Every publication has its own particular tone and flavour, and there are only two places where readers can effectively contribute to this: the letters page and the cla.s.sified section. A lonely-hearts section is a column of reader contributions more than it is an advertising a.s.set, and it's a mistake to h.o.m.ogenise it for the sake of additional revenue. There is a currency in lonely hearts that goes beyond mere numbers.

Moreover, for the brave and the bold, there is a lot of fun to be had in the process of finding a mate, be it through dating agencies or singles nights or lonely-hearts ads. Indeed for some LRB advertisers meeting a partner is no longer even the main objective of placing a personal ad. Creating these silly little flourishes has become an art form, successfully sidestepping the potentially awkward self-appraisal of other lonely-hearts columns. They're a frolic, a bit of whimsy. If they earn responses, then so much the better, but the stakes aren't high if they don't. The silliness, in this sense, becomes a sleight of hand, a trick done with mirrors to disguise the machinery beneath the stage: Writing this advert has given the biggest sense of accomplishment I've felt since successfully ironing my trousers (14 June 1998). Man, 37. Box no. 2473.

Having fun is an important element in breaking down the anxieties that have made us so acutely hopeless when it comes to speaking about relations.h.i.+ps, and I like to think the LRB personals have played their small part. Pitching oneself in the LRB is no longer about trying to locate one's most attractive aspects, princ.i.p.ally because it's tiring trying to figure out what other people find attractive. The ads in the LRB aren't necessarily about saying anything at all; they are little statements of absurdityflashes of silliness that brilliantly, if briefly, illuminate the human condition and all its attendant quirks and nonsenses.

There have been many Monday mornings when, opening those emails that have acc.u.mulated during the small hours of the weekend, I've clutched my head in despair and wept like a little child, wis.h.i.+ng they could be more straightforward or at least toy with the idea of being conventional. But more often than not I'm glad of their eccentricity. I'm grateful for the 'Low-carbing, high-maintenance F (43)' seeking an M to 50 'with no small knowledge of hiding trigger foods, the protein count of devilled eggs, and nature's own cures for constipation'. It helps me appreciate the importance of silliness and, among other things, the value of a regular bowel movement.

LRB personals exist because of the many hundreds of readers who have contributed so indefatigably to the column over the last decade, and I'm profoundly grateful to them all. Nor should the work of staff at the LRB be underestimated; I'd like to thank Mary-Kay Wilmers and all the editorial and business staff of the LRB for nurturing such a dedicated readers.h.i.+p. In particular I'd like to thank the following, without whom this book, and the column itself, would simply have never existed: Tahmina Begum, Howard Bromelow, Ben Campbell, Daniel Crewe, Bryony Dalefield, Penny Daniel, Tim Johnson, Thomas Jones, Daniel Soar, Sara Tsiringakis and Nicholas Spice, who has been a friend and a mentor throughout.

Note to readers: It should be pointed out that the ads in this volume are no longer active and as such responses cannot be forwarded on to advertisers.

1 Viktor Shklovsky, 'Art as Technique' in Russian Formalist Criticism: Four Essays, translated and edited by Lee T. Lemon and Marion J. Reis (University of Nebraska Press, 1965), pp. 524.

"Love is strange

wait 'til you

see my feet"

This ad may not be the best lonely heart in the world, nor its author the best-smelling. That's all I have to say. Man, 37. Box no. 7654.

My finger on the pulse of culture, my ear to the ground of philosophy, my hip in the medical waste bin of Glasgow Royal Infirmary. 14% plastic and countinggeriatric brainiac and compulsive NHS malingering fool (M, 81), looking for richer, older s.e.x-starved woman on the brink of death to exploit and ruin every replacement operation I've had since 1974. Box no. 7648 (quickly, the clock's ticking, and so is this pacemaker).

7 million is good for me. Most days though I plateau at around 3 million. Any advances? Man with low sperm count (35that's my age) seeks woman in no hurry to see the zygotes divide.1 Box no. 8385.

Dinner's on me. Gap-toothed F, 32. WLTM man to 35 with permanent supply of Wet Ones. Box no. 7364.

Remember when all this was open fields, and you could go out and leave your door unlocked? Woman, 24. Inherited her mother's unreasonable and utterly unfounded nostalgia (and her father's hirsute back). WLTM barber with fondness for Sherbet Dib-Dabs and Parma Violets.2 Box no. 8486.

Virtually complete male, 63, seeks woman with spares and shed. Box no. 7923.

Sinister-looking man with a face that only a mother would love: think of an ageing Portillo with a beard and you have my better-looking twin. Sweetie at heart, though. Nice conversation, great for dimly-lit romantic meals. Better in those Welsh villages where the electricity supply can't be guaranteed. Charitable women to 50 appreciated. Box no. 0364.

Bald, short, fat and ugly male, 53, seeks shortsighted woman with tremendous s.e.xual appet.i.te. Box no. 9612.

You think I like dressing this way? Lanolin-sensitive c.u.mbrian chick: outside all calico, inside pure wool. WLTM man to 40 who knows when to turn the lights down and the heat up. First-aid skills a bonus. Box no. 3280.

I'm just a girl who can't say 'no' (or 'anaesthetist'). Lisping Rodgers and Hammerstein fan, female lecturer in politics (37) WLTM man to 40 for thome enthanted eveningth. Box no. 2498.

My other car is a bike. Eco-friendly bio-diverse M (29). Smells a bit like soil and eats too much soup, but otherwise friendly (you're not seriously going to put that burger in your mouth, are you?). Box no. 8563.

Love is strangewait 'til you see my feet. F, 34, wide-fitting Scholl's. 3 Box no. 5973.

You're a brunette, 6', long legs, 2530, intelligent, articulate and drop-dead gorgeous. I, on the other hand, am 410, have the looks of Herve Villechaize and carry an odour of wheat.4 No returns and no refunds at box no. 3321.

This personal column has been poorer without me, so here I am againhairy-backed Wilts.h.i.+re troll with definite Stig of the Dump influences (M, 56, jam-jar windows, a fridge made of bike parts, and a sensitive grunt during only the most intimate moments), still searching for that special lady with no sense of touch or smell, and a capacity for overwhelming compromise in certain lifestyle choices. Box no. 3732.

Tonight, femaleLRBreaders to 90, I am the hunter and you are my quarry. 117-year-old male Norfolk v.i.a.g.r.a bootlegger finally in the mood for a bit of young totty. Which realistically could be any one of you with working hip joints and a minimum 20% lung capacity. Hopeful right through the Complan and Horlicks main course at box no. 3112.

You were reading the BBC in-house magazine on the Jubilee Line (12 November), I was coughing hot tea through my nostrils. Surely you can't have forgotten? Write now to smitten, weak-kneed, severely burned, b.u.mbling F (32, but normally I look younger). I'll be quite a catch when my top lip has healed. And this brace isn't for ever. Box no. 7432.

If we share a bath together I have to insist on wearing verruca socks. Woman, 36, still reeling from a school swimming incident in 1975 (six months of padded plasters isn't easy to get over). Box no. 3186.

I'll see you at theLRBsingles night. I'll be the one breathing heavily and stroking my thighs by the 'art' books. Asthmatic, varicosed F (93) seeks M to 30 with enough puff in him to push me uphill to the post office. This is not a euphemism. Box no. 4632.

Mature gentleman (62), aged well, n.o.ble grey looks, fit and active, sound mind and unfazed by the fickle demands of modern society seeks...d.a.m.n it, I have to pee again. Box no. 4143.

These ads try too hard to be funny. Not me, I'm a natural. Juggling, monkey-faced idiot (M, 36). Box no. 5312.

Toilet duties. That's where you come inbuxom, 22-year-old, blonde stereotype not shy of adjusting the surgical stockings of 73-year-old misanthrope with poor bladder control. Failing that, just send care-home brochures to box no. 0278.

Join me for sit-ups in Dairy-Free week! M, 42, big-boned. Box no. 6421.

Hoxton salad-dodger (42my age and my waist; Mmy s.e.x not my coat size, that's strictly XL) WLTM LRB chubster with an interest in red meat and mustardy dressings. Free first Tuesday of every month, Slimmer's World every Wednesday. Box no. 1275.

My animal pa.s.sions would satisfy any woman, if only it weren't for the filibustering of this d.a.m.ned colon. And the chafing of these infernal hospital sheets. Write now to M, 83, for ward visiting hours and a list of approved solids. Box no. 2377.

I am the literary event of 2007, or at the very least the most entertaining drunk on my ward. Please visit (MonThurs, 57 p.m., bring chocolate, and gin). F, 41. Box no. 4365.

I wonder if Clive James5reads these. And if he does, would he find me attractive enough to write to? Hope not, I'm after an early-twenties stud-m.u.f.fin capable of obscene bedroom gymnastics. Woman, 74, living in perpetual hope (and a care home in Pendle), WLTM nearest thing in an Easy-Up-Chair-equipped bungalow. Box no. 4321.

Every Christmas, without fail, theLRBproduces the biggest turkey. This year it's memonocled, plaid-festooned gadabout, out of place in any relations.h.i.+p, or century, that fails to recognise the comfort of a secure knickerbocker. Please help me. Man, possibly your embarra.s.sing uncle, 51. Box no. 0563.

If dreams were eagles, I would fly, but they ain't, and that's the reason why. Spend New Year singing into your hairbrush with the Goombay Dance Band and me, bitter publis.h.i.+ng marketing exec. (F, 33), too drunk at the office party to keep all my s...o...b..r behind my teeth. Golden star that leads to paradise. Like a river's running to the ocean I'll come back to you four thousand miles.6 Box no. 6308.

Most vegetarians complain about missing the taste of bacon. Not me, I complain about my liver disease. And rural postal services. Man, 40. Box no. 3143.

Either I'm desperately unattractive, or you are all lesbians. Bald, pasty man (61) with nervous tick and uncla.s.sifiable skin complaint believes it to be the latter but holds out hope for dominant (yet straight) fems at box no. 1075.

You'll regret replying to this adits owner smells of peas. But if you too live in a care home where the quality of the shower water is poor and access to the bath hoist is determined by an inadequate monthly rotation schedule, then write to flaky 72-year-old man with no recollection of where any of these stains have come from, box no. 4220.

1 A normal average sperm count is 20 million.

2 Sherbet Dib-Dab: square lollipop in a small packet of sherbet, usually licked and dipped. Parma Violet: traditional perfumed violet candy.

3 Scholl: shoe-manufacturer specialising in comfort footwear. Formed in 1904 by Dr William Matthias Scholl. In 1912 Scholl founded the Illinois College of Chiropody and Orthopaedics.

4 Herve Jean-Pierre Villechaize. Born 23 April 1943 in Paris, France. Diagnosed with an acute thyroid condition at the age of three, he reached a full-grown height of just under four feet tall. Studied painting and photography at the Beaux-Arts museum in Paris. At the age of eighteen he became the youngest artist ever to have his work displayed in the prestigious Museum of Paris. Moved to New York at the age of twenty-one and became an actor with roles that included Beppo in The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight (1971) and Nick Nack in the 1974 James Bond film The Man with the Golden Gun. Failing to capitalise on these roles, Villechaize eventually found fame playing the role of Tattoo opposite Ricardo Montalban in ABC's TV show Fantasy Island, where his catchphrase 'de plane, de plane' entered the lexicon of American popular culture. Married Donna Camille in 1980; the couple divorced in December 1981. Villechaize was dropped from Fantasy Island in 1983 after demanding more money and fell into severe financial difficulties. By 1990 his health had deteriorated and he suffered frequent bouts of depression. In 1993 he found work in an American Dunkin' Donuts commercial in which he asked for 'de plain, de plain' doughnut. After attending a screening for The Fugitive at the Directors Guild Theater in Hollywood with his partner, Katherine Self, Villechaize was found on 4 September 1993 with a self-inflicted gunshot wound in his chest. He was p.r.o.nounced dead at 3.40 p.m. by doctors at the Medical Center of North Hollywood.

5 Writer, poet, essayist and critic. Born 1939.

6 From 'Seven Tears', single released by the Goombay Dance Band, which reached number one in the UK in March 1982.

"I've divorced

better men than

you"

Get out of my s.p.a.ce. And quit touching. Otherwise friendly F, 42 (publicity director), wants to get to know you. Box no. 4213 (please include full CV, medical records, five recent bank statements, photo and proof of signature).

Tired of feeling patronised by the ads in this column? Then I'm not the woman for you, little man. Today you may be benighted and insignificant, tomorrow you will be more so. Now off you go. Box no. 2912.

Blah, blah, whatever. Indifferent woman. Go ahead and write. Box no. 3253. Like I care.

Disreputable, mean, ruthless, perverse, hateful wretch. But what do divorce lawyers know? Woman, forties, marketing director for major international publis.h.i.+ng firm, London/SE, you'll soon find that I'm the finest fellow breathing. Just take time out to get to know me. Box no. 5313.

Don't send me any poems. Woman, 34. Fed up of getting poems. Box no. 4253.

Beneath this hostile museum curator's exterior lies a hostile museum curator's interior. We meet at the coat check and neverand I mean neverdeviate from the mapped route. Zone one: Ancient Egypt. Zone two: The Treasures of Greece. Zone three: guided tours only, keep your hands where I can see them. F, 38. Box no. 3452.

You should know that by placing this advert I've lowered my expectations considerably. Now even you're in with a chance. Don't blow it by mentioning your mother and your predilection for bluestocking NAAFI-types.1 Woman, 46, accustomed to disappointment, but not that much. Box no. 2541.

Your age is immaterial, your looks irrelevant. Your bank balance, on the other handlet's not joke about with that. Grabbing F (28). Box no. 3652.

I know you like meyou're just too self-conscious to do anything about it. I blame your overbearing mother. And your lazy eye. It was me you were flirting with, wasn't it? Loving, considerate F (34). Box no. 5324.

From now on I'm only going to reply to my own ads. That's because I'm funnier and better-looking than any of you. Publicist F, 29. Box no. 5132.

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. Box no. 6322.

5 September is the anniversary of my divorce. So too are 17 November, 12 January, 8 March and 21 June. Summer is usually much quietertake advantage of the suns.h.i.+ne and lawyers' vacation periods by dating impatient, money-grabbing PR senior (F, 39). Box no. 2582.

I butchered three volumes of Seamus Heaney2 to produce this ad. Publicity exec. (F, 31). Box no. 2561.

Meet the new me. Like the old me only less nice after three ads without any s.e.xual intercourse. 42-year-old fruitcake (F). Box no. 2611.

If you really wanted to get to know me, you'd fly me to Riobamba.3 Tickets and flight itinerary, please, to advantage-taking woman, 41, Staffs. Box no. 2612.

I'm a Pisceswhich makes you and me a bad match, but how about your good-looking friend? Noncommittal, easily-distracted, fly-by-night F (35). Sorry, I think I just heard my phone ring. Box no. 2541.

Jarns, nittles, grawlix and quimp!4 This column gets more profane with every issue. Strait-laced, bluestocking F seeks to establish higher standard with well-heeled gentleman to 60 with some degree of euphemistic dexterity when the moment demands it, and a liberal application of silence when it doesn't. We sleep in separate rooms and never share a towel at box no. 5321.

Arty, well-read, gorgeous, blonde woman (29), currently working in publis.h.i.+ng, WLTM intelligent, sensitive man to 35. Thumb this ad with nervous excitement any more than you already are and you'll end up with a yeast infection. Box no. 6212.

Male readers of the LRB: trawling for s.e.x as your opening gambit doesn't really work. Talk to me about your favourite author; the painting that means the most to you; what smells remind you of your childhood; the day you first saw your parents differently; your first holiday; your favourite place to read; the last recipe you followed; the most recent newspaper clipping you kept; the name of a lover you most recently remembered; your favourite stretch of water; what you like most about Paris or Rome or London; the last time you fed ducks on a pond. Actually, I'm short on time, go ahead and trawl. Woman, 39. Publis.h.i.+ng. Get on with it. Box no. 5201.

Every time I read these ads I cringe with the knowledge that they are all me. And some are you. And we'll probably end up liking each other very much. But let me tell you now, you're not the sort of man I'd normally get off with (he's reading the Conde Nast Traveller). You'll do for now, though, but no tongues, and careful where you put those hands. Box no. 7231.

'No,' I said, 'this is comedy,' and threw the biscottiand his skinny mocha latteright back in his face. Edgy, humourless F, 41, banned from most train-station Costas. Strangely alone at box no. 6323.

CONGRATULATIONS! You are the thousandth reader to pa.s.s this ad by. Your prize is to pay for dinner and listen to me b.i.t.c.h about my university colleagues until pub turfing-out time.5 And no, you don't get s.e.x. Ever. Ever, ever, ever. Sensitive F, 38. Box no 7382.