Lonely hearts... not.

From the personals section in the London Review of Books.

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 counting -- geriatric brainiac and compulsive NHS malingering fool (M, 81), looking for richer, older sex-starved woman on the brink of death to exploit and ruin every replacement operation I've had since 1974. Box 7648 (quickly, the clock's ticking, and so is this pacemaker).

My success as a lover is matched only by my success in the field of astronomy. Man, 37. WLTM woman to 40 with eyes as big and as bright as those stars that come up over by the trees opposite my house at about 9pm every night, then every 15 minutes or so. You know the ones. I call them the Regular Magic Tree Stars. They may be comets. Or planes. Or something. Whatever. Write, we’ll have sex, you’ll love it. Box no. 24/03

Reply to this advert, then together we can face the harsh realities of my second mortgage. M, 38, WLTM woman to 70 with active credit cards. Box no. 8624.

Blonde sunshine GODDESS of many worlds (36, 5'6") seeks ridiculously tall GOD for mutual worship, command of universe and the creation of space, time, the firmament, good, evil etc. It's lonely at the top. Of course, you'd know that, being absurdly tall. Box no. 23/02

Shy, ugly man, fond of extended periods of self-pity, middle-aged, flatulent and overweight, seeks the impossible. Box no. 8623.

They call me Naughty Lola. Run-of-the-mill beardy physicist (M, 46). Box. 4023.

They don’t call me naughty Lola. They call me Brian. Brian, 57. Box no. 23/07.