Realistically, the only way I could meet my future wife is by bumping into her in a quiet corridor with all my might. I'd have to make sure that I knocked a pile of papers out of her hands. Then I'd have to get down on my knees to help her pick them up like the kind gentleman that I am. The papers would have to be a complete list of her likes and dislikes, her favourite films, songs and books. I'd have just a split second to scan over them as we both fumbled in the most awkward of situations and I'd have just a second more to compare everything that my eyes could see with my own pre-recorded preferences in my head. If they matched, we could take the relationship further, go for coffee and finally settle down together in a quiet little village somewhere on the outskirts of Leeds, with the occasional summer in the south of France. I'm no fool, I know that I'm going to have to bump into a lot of women before I find one who carries an A4 sized summarry of her interests and life and even more before I bump into one with who is a complete match. I just pray I don't get arrested first.
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