From the ages of about eight to thirteen, I was more or less surgically attached to a library. For us old folks, the library was our internet, except that it was made out of paper. Completely unlike the current internet, the mainstay of the library wasn’t porn, but the librarian. Neither sexy nor scantily clad, the librarian was usually an older woman whose temperament ranged somewhere from genial to dour. Ordinarily you could find her behind her desk or dutifully pushing her trolley along, re-shelving books. I highly suspect her cologne was a subtle Eau de Book Paste.
One thing for sure, they never built them like Chainsaw Sally.