Productivity has come to a screeching halt now that I have been introduced to the London Review of Books Personals. (Thank you, Elly.)
I hate you all. I hate London. I hate books. I hate critics. I hate this magazine, I hate this column and I hate all the goons who appear in it. But if you have large breasts, are younger than 30 and don’t want to talk about the novel you’re ‘writing’ I’ll put all that aside for approximately two hours one Saturday afternoon in January. Man, 33.
I refuse to let my sadomasochistic tendencies and love of koi define who I am, but if our relationship is to progress to any meaningful level then we will be spending an awful lot of time in the Japanese ornamental garden section of Worcester Homebase. Man, 46.
If forced to commit, I’d say I feared geese more than ducks. Man, 47. Fears geese more than ducks.
If a break-up to you means spending most lunchtimes crying over chicken skewers at All Bar One then join me, big-boned F (37), and we can share a World Tapas bundle dish and save ourselves a fortune. Afterwards we can make love, but not before the chocolate fondant dessert. I can be found at the Henrietta Street branch, Wednesdays between 12 and 2, requesting fries with my hoi sin duck quesadilla.
