millionreasons | Will own up to dancing eyes

dickon_edwards very kindly signed me up for a year's free subs to the London Review of Books, a literary tome with aspirations to highbrow-ism. I suspect I am not its target audience - I skimmd through reviews of a book about the Military from 1870 to the present day, another about "Conquest and collecting in the East 1750-1850", and completely shunned an appraisal of A Revisionist History of Footbinding, but did find interesting articles on David Mitchell, V for Vendetta v. Inside Man, and Philip Larkin's love of crime novels.

However, the best thing is the personals. Here's a selection that rocked my, erm, boat:

Where’s my Jack Walser equivalent? I’m Red Riding Hood (but older), you’re the wolf, only it’s on equal terms now, so be brave and I’ll sleep peacefully between your paws Box no. 09/01

What’s your favourite soup. Mine is mulligatawny. Mulligatawny-liking gentleman (50).

Not a Bollywood queen, not an eccentric English welfare mother, not a Danish sailing woman, not a French fliquette, not a Marsh Arab, not a Shanghai video artist and not even an ex-USSR scientist. Perhaps a little bit sub-Saharan fashionista but unfashionably warm, friendly and generous. Will own up to dancing eyes and a slightly dubious relationship with books, food and Neil Diamond. Box no. 09/06

I’ve memorised every shortcut to Waitrose, Caversham. Woman, 43, just about ready to take a step up the social ladder with any reasonably-minded moneyed M to 90. An ability to know when not to speak is a distinct advantage, as are frequent flyer Air Miles. Box no. 09/09

A list of what I’m looking for in a man is displayed on the door of my fridge. You’ll never see it, however, because I locked myself out of my flat at the weekend and will probably have to rent somewhere else for a while. Menopausal woman, 52. Sent my HRT off to Truprint back in January and now spend most evenings staring in despair at seven rolls of unprocessed Christmas film with no hormonal benefits whatsoever. Box no. 09/11

It's pretty hard to avoid the temptation of responding to this feller:

I’d like to dedicate this advert to my mother (difficult cow, 65) who is responsible for me still being single at 36. Man. 36. Single. Held at home by years of subtle emotional abuse and at least 19 fake heart-attacks. Box no. 09/08

but this is the only one who sounds like he shouldn't be incarcerated straight away:

I spent an entire day in the British Library sourcing obscure reference material to cite in this ad, then I lost it all when I stopped off at Burger King on the way home. Man, 34. Box no. 09/12

I look forward to receiving the next issue.