Me: "I'm not revealing to you my address and telephone number! You'll seek me out professing love and then either kill me in a fit of possessive rage over one of my silly platonic men-friends or alternatively slay me for my vast sums of money!"
The Tutor: "I would not kill you for your alleged riches nor would I kill you while reacting in a puerile jealous pique. I would never kill for such a vulgar concern as money - I have plenty of my own. And I would never kill for love - I mean, really, how gauche and ill-bred is that? I would never kill out of religious zeal or political intrigue either. I kill as a matter of taste. Simple as that. I like pasta, I like the colour beige, I like the music of ABBA and I like to kill."
Me: "Very well then: 613 - 555 - 1212. And you better call me!"
The Tutor: "Thank you. You won't be sorry. Do you happen to have any food allergies by any chance? Or any common phobias that could be truly life-threatening if handled indelicately?"
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