I need those things in my life
It was George who first introduced me to stamp collecting. He was delighted that I developed an interest in stamps, but he seemed horrified when I wanted to collect anything. There were a few occasions when I ran out of money, prompting my mother to remind me about my spending habits. It didn't take long to focus on commemorative stamps that featured mountains and volcanoes. My housemate found it interesting, as I wasn't keen in climbing every mountain. He was spot on.
George sent me an e-mail the other week, where he told me about the latest release from the Royal Mail. A set of six stamps depicting six of Agatha Christie's works. September 15 would be the author's birthday, and there won't be a better way to remember her. George's photos (of the stamps) made me green with envy, as the set was well designed and clever to boot. My favorite illustration was "Murder on the Orient Express," where the smoke (from the train) would resemble Hercule Poirot. He was too bright to guess the passengers involved in a conspiracy, which took years in the making.
We studied Christie's works. George was a huge fan of detective novels. In his case, he was rather particular about a design that appealed to his (snobbish?) taste. I also have a bookshelf of my favorite novellas and short stories, but I never paid attention to the book cover. As long as the story was good enough for a second reading. My housemate focused on stamps that would celebrate the literary achievements of renowned authors during the last few centuries. This challenging aspect would make him treasure his stamp collection. It took me a number of times before he agreed to my request (of looking at it). I would suspect that he was also interested in philately, where collectors would know the minor details of stamps. And such things might fetch their collection a nice sum. I don't have a clue if George would sell his collection, but I could guess a few names in the English Department. They would love to get their hands on his stamp album.
How old is too old?
My housemates and I have an interesting (online) conversation later a few days later. How old is too old for a bedtime story? They were surprised when I told them that my mother was reading me my favorite stories during my tenth year. I was a lazy kid, such that I was fifteen when I started to read a book on my bed. (And my mother would remind me to lower my voice.) I didn't get tired of Adventure novels particularly Lemuel Gulliver's sallies. I became interested in Children's literature, but it happened at a later time. Everyone seemed to think that there was something wrong with me. I was amused by it.
Chris was eight when the habit stopped, while Lucas didn't recall a particular episode involving books. (His parents were hooked to the television.) It was refreshing to hear George's sentiment, where he would never outgrow the habit of someone reading him a good book. We assumed his parents were old and tired of the habit until he recalled one evening where his older sister was at his bedside. Some lads have all the luck.
