Download They Call Me Naughty Lola- Personal Ads from the London Review of Books PDF

TitleThey Call Me Naughty Lola- Personal Ads from the London Review of Books
File Size490.8 KB
Total Pages119
Table of Contents
Title Page
Love is strange–wait ’til you see my feet
I’ve divorced better men than you
Last time I had this much fun, I was on forty tablets a day
Golden nutritious wheat in a rotting column of chaff
I once came within an ace of making my own toothpaste
Vodka, canasta, evenings in, and cold, cold revenge
They call me naughty Lola
My last chance to get a man fell in autumn, 1992
I’m not a vet, but I do enjoy volunteer work
My mind is a globe of excitement
Must all the women in my life take the witness stand?
Like the ad above, but better-educated
The harsh realities of my second mortgage
This column reads like a list of X-File character rejects
Failure? Pah! I invented the word
Evel Knievel / chronology of jumps and injuries
Document Text Contents
Page 60

This is the first time in my life I’ve appeared in any font other than
Courier New. That’s because my best work is still in my head, as are my
years of financial stability, my buff physique, the respect of my peers,
and my ability to trim sea bass. What were you expecting–Saul Bellow?
Man, 34. Takes what he can get, as will you. Box no. 1763.

I know, this is neither the time nor the place to mention marriage,
but I’ve always loved you. Whichever one replies first. Man, 56. I’ve
left a space on the mortgage for your name. Are you ready for children
yet? Box no. 8221.

Woman who wanted to marry my dad–you didn’t give me any contact
details. Don’t play games with the desperate. Box no. 1721.

Speak a foreign language? Evidently I do. Let me try plain English.
Me: woman, 38. You: man, not older than forty, not covered in prison
tattoos and not currently hospital resident. Savvy? Photos (clothed only)
to box no. 5236.

At Feltham Station turn right on to Hounslow Road. Take the first
left on to Hanworth Road, then the third right into Ashfield Avenue. At
the second tree on the pavement on the left, next to the red Vauxhall
Astra with the out-of-date tax disc, that’s where the Spaniards buried the
lost treasure of Moctezuma–start digging. You won’t find it, but you’ll
have a better chance at that than of finding love in this column. Trust
me, this is my fifth (and final–all my credit cards have been cancelled)
outing. It’s always one last throw of the dice for desperate but easily
persuaded F, 45, at box no. 6202.

personals are my only mistress. Night my only friend. I learned
that the hard way. But not before I’d paid 80 pence a word for this
beauty. Man, 34. Knocking firmly on the door of failure for neither the
first nor the last time in his life. Box no. 0378.

Page 118

Prince Albert

psychic tentacles


Reynolds, Burt



sea bass



skinny mocha latte


space cakes

Spallanzani, Lazzaro

sperm count



Sutherland, John


Tarkin, Grand Moff

Page 119





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