Just once I’d like to date a woman whose home isn’t on Bitch Island, accessible only by Satan’s Hell Train into which is continuously piped the blood-curdling screams of her multitudinous previous victims. If you don’t think that’s too much to ask – and don’t have a long-running tab at your local pharmacist – then write to stupid man, 43.
We’ve all made mistakes. Mine was a cerise pump during London Fashion Week 2004. Fashion troubadour, (M, 35). WLTM similar, or appropriately dour fag hag.
My last affair ended with a round of applause from a crew of stand-by paramedics. If the next one has to end I’ll settle for a text message. Woman, 39. Seeks man who knows when to wear his Medic Alert Badge, carries his own emergency injectable adrenaline kit, and isn’t too scared to say ‘actually, I don’t feel like lobster tonight’.
Redhead, lovely, wishes to perpetuate the ginger gene. Overeducated, wealthy enough, successful enough, famous enough – so what? Let’s have babies! Already have kids? The more the merrier. Delighted to relocate, for the right man, from Manhattan to Manhattan Beach, London to Lindisfarne to Lizard, Arbroath to Altnaharra, Belleek to Belfast, Skibbereen to Sligo.
From the London Review of Books