What is it about some books that causes you to go forth and proselytise? The last time I loved a book so much that I felt everybody I knew should also be reading it, I inflicted copies of Infinite Jest on many a still-traumatised friend.
Then on the weekend I read They Call Me Naughty Lola: The London Review of Books personal ads. I was transfixed. I could also name, right off the top of my head, about ten people that I just knew would love this book as much as I do. 2007 Christmas shopping just got a whole lot easier. Whether I will be showered with gratitude is open to question. Wait and see, wait and see.
Some examples:
Blah, blah, whatever. Indifferent woman. Go ahead and write. Box no. 3253. Like I care.
Shy, ugly man, fond of extended periods of self-pity, middle-aged, flatulent and overweight, seeks the impossible. Box no. 8623.
Born under a bad sign: 'Skelmersdale next exit'. After that it was a life of emotional service stops and never-ending circuits on North West ring roads. Are you my final Little Chef or an emergency pull-up on the hard shoulder of despair? Man, 32. Cries like a girl and phones his mother a lot. Box no. 5285. Junction 13.
Grave disappointment all round WLTM serious mistake in a nightie. Box no. 6453.
1 comment:
That's hilarious!
(now you've got me thinking who's on my Christmas list, when really I should be focusing on still trying to pick a name for my baby...)
(ps: this is Proud Mum, I'm too lazy to log out of gmail and log back into newblogger, gah!)
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