Today's the day, Journal. I have arrived at Tara Wakersfield's mansion (well not hers, but her father's). I knocked 3 times before the elegant grand doors were opened by a heavy-set man of imposing stature.

"Why, hello, young lad! You must be that talented artist who drew my daughter's portrait!" the man's voice boomed. He had a happy-go-lucky sense to him, and had orange hair and a curly mustache.

"Pleasure to meet you sir, my name is Kenneth Paradox," I greeted, stretching out my hand.

"Delighted. You may call me Samson. Come inside!"

I took in every detail of the lavish sitting room. Various antiquities adorned shelves, and fine carpets of royal colors were laid about the floor.

I made a silent promise to myself: that one day I'd have a mansion just like this. And if not, then may it be even more grandiose!

Samson and I stopped in front of a double L staircase and looked up. I'm not so much a fool to question why we were waiting, but I was foolish to have almost drooled over a creature such as this one.

Now wait- I've mentioned previously that I do not fancy Miss Tara Wakersfield. However, I still feel inclined describe to you how she glided over the steps of the staircase.

Every step she took was as graceful as the ink flowing from the fountain pen I write with.

Her orange hair was done in a tight updo, and she had heavy curls on either side. She wore an elegant dress the color of daffodils. The dress featured big sleeves in the shape of butterfly wings, a tight sash around her waist, and rows of ruffles along the hemline. She gave the impression of being crafted by fays themselves.

Miss Tara greeted me, and we followed her father out into their garden. The grass was perfectly green, the trees with branches full of leaves and bushes blooming with flowers of every kind and hue. The fragrance these flowers emitted was beautiful.

Samson offered me a seat on a wicker chair. It was surprisingly comfortable. And of course, more practical and sanitary than upholstered furniture.

"Fun fact: I know the man who made that chair," Samson said.

"Who?" I asked. I'm not very keen on furniture facts.

"Cyrus Wakefield," he answered proudly.

"Dash my wig! Are you two related?"

Samson laughed good-heartedly. "No, my boy. My family name is Wakersfield not Wakefield."

I heard Tara giggle, and I immediately blushed.

"Erm- how long have you known him?" I continued.

"Well, I'd say about 30 years. That man should be in his 60s by now. Ah, I almost forgot. Would you like some wine?"

"Yes please."

"My dear, please serve us two glasses," Samson directed at Tara.

"Yes father," she walked back into the house.

The wine she'd served us was a delicacy and exquisite. Of course, such is to be expected from a household so rich.

At exactly 7 o'clock, a loud boom shook the earth. Something small catapulted up into the sky, and lit up the heavens with bright arrays of light. It dissipated slowly and sometimes quickly, leaving a cloud of smoke in the air.

The fireworks of July 4th, 1873 had begun. Samson sat in the wicker chair besides me, drinking his wine and laughing like always. This man was the very definition of a gigglemug. Tara- was not in the parameter.

I looked around and saw her standing next to a tree deep in the garden. She was surrounded by soft yellow and white freesias. Like us, she was admiring the display of fireworks in the sky. I know not why she decided to experience it in isolation. Perhaps she's of the highly individualistic type.

I'm writing this at midnight, for the extravagance of the event barely came to an end at 11. I shall end today here, wondering what tomorrow will bring.