Reader, I went on a date earlier in the week.
My date and I visited a giant, orange, brick building near the top of Symonds Street. A business leases the building and sells second-hand books out of it.
It's worth a look; mountains of books across all the different disciplines and branches of knowledge. More interestingly, there are fun little cubby holes and secret rooms, one stumbles into with innocent, child-like wonder, while hunting for that ever-elusive book. My date bought four books. I saw one book I wanted and decided I'd buy it another time, once I've finished the book I'm studying. The book that caught my eye was: 'Ivanhoe', written by Sir Walter Scott: it's a famous novel written about the lives of wayward aristocrats if I remember rightly.
By all accounts, the date went well. We were in the bookstore for two or so hours. My date has light hair, hails from America, and is of European descent. In fact, she seems a bit sweet on me: if I am to indulge in my own intuitive fancies. To be honest, I was a bit nervous before the date (you know, in anticipation of getting to know someone). However, once it got going, it flowed rather well.
And yes, I even ironed my shirt for the occasion.
Sincerely, M
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