Personal Ads from the London Review of Books

And people say the academic and intellectual are boring and lack a sense of humor:

Beneath this hostile museum curator's exterior lies a hostile museum curator's interior. We meet at the coat check and never - and I mean never - deviate 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

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

My animal passions would satisfy any woman, if only it weren't for the filibustering of this damned 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

You're a brunette, 6', long legs, 25-30, intelligent, articulate and drop-dead gorgeous. I, on the other hand, am 4'10", have the looks of Herve Villechaize and carry an odour of wheat. No returns and no refunds at box no. 3321

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 no. 7648 (quickly, the clock's ticking, and so is this pacemaker).

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. Box no. 8486

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