It's been years since I've stepped foot in a libary.
As the computer has gradually taken up more and more of my spare time, and since I spend all day reading and writing, I find it more and more difficult to set aside time to read. And any reading I do is reading of a book or magazine I've purchased. My reasons, then, to enter a libary have dwindled to, well, none.
This is my great shame, I suppose.
The last time I entered a libary, I was looking for a book for my son, who was probably 4 or 5 at the time. So, that's like 6 years ago.
At that time, I was looking for some material for him to read, or (probably, since he probably wasn't quite able to read yet) for me to read to him. One of my favourite early-school year reads was the Noddy series of books, by Enid Blyton, so I thought I'd look for some at my local libary.
The libary didn't have them. Or maybe they were signed out.
Anyway, I left the libary with my Noddy. And I haven't been back since.
There. There's my libary story. And, yes, I know how to spell it. I choose not to.