PEEING myself.

Today 231079, 443980, and i went a-wandering through Pages at lunchtime. So dangerous.

I picked up a book called They Call Me Naughty Lola.

Who wouldn't, really.

I opened it and was greeted with (real) personal ads taken from the London Review of Books, which some clever sort decided to amass between dustcovers.

Poor 231079.
I didn't have money on me. (This had been vaguely strategic planning, given the perilous dangers of a trip to Pages). 231079 decided, though, that I must have said book and purchased it for me, regardless of financial strife, regardless of the common sense knowledge that I SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO HAVE ANY MORE BOOKS. She even refused my attempts to compensate her, in that way of hers that causes So Much Reverence and only a slight (Slight) bit of worry.

And how did i repay her? sigh. By following her around the bookshop, reading endless passages of the wit of lonelyhearts and Howling Uncontrollably. So patient. So tolerant.
And I was Crying, I tell you. SO. FUNNY.

I am going to attempt to restrain myself from re-copying the whole book onto this blog. Especially since I am (believe it or not) aware that people probably do not share my excessive degree of mirth over these, or even my rather uptight and stodgy sense of humour in general.
I do appreciate that.
I do.
But sweet balls of Beelzebub, just a few.
Just a few. (This is what you get for reading blogs, you fools. Stuck with my idea of funny.)

Here we go:

You were reading the BBC in-house magazine on the Jubilee Line (12 November), I was coughing hot tea through my nostrils. Surely you can't have forgotten? Write now to smitten, weak-kneed, severely burned, bumbling F (32, but normally I look younger). I'll be quite a catch when my top lip has healed. And this brace isn't forever. Box no. 7432.

Romance is dead. So is my mother. Man, 42, inherited wealth. Box no. 7652.

Baste me in butter and call me Slappy. No, really. M, 35. Box no. 3175.

Are you Kate Bush? Write to obsessive man (36) at box no. 7363. Note: People who aren't Kate Bush need not respond.

Grave disappointment all round WLTM serious mistake in a nightie. Box no. 6453.

You are going to be alone this Christmas. That's because nobody likes you. I, however, will provide you with a basic meal and some pleasant company on the understanding that you do not criticise my collection of antique medical implements. Tidy man, 51. Size 9 slipper. Box no. 7314.

Take the last train to Clarksville and I'll meet you at the station.* Unless the 10.15 to Watney has been delayed. In which case I'll get the bus—meet me at Morrisons, by the front entrance. If you can't find your way there, get a taxi and I'll give you the fare when I arrive, but make sure you take some change with you. If you don't have any change, take a trumpet so that you can busk for some. Woman, 38, burdened by the need to make contingency plans, seeks well-ordered man to 45. Or woman to 50. Or anyone to 60. Write to box no. 3485. If you can't find stamps, place an ad here and I'll get back to you. If the office is closed, email it. If you can't write, send a taped voice message. Etc., etc.

*(This one had Footnotes!! The preceding is a lyric to an old Monkees single.)

I will end with saying that I do realize that there is a fine line between gut-splittingly funny and grievously sad. Sigh. All this really shows us is how many single people there are out there who (ahem) spend Far Too Much Time Reading.