And the wonderful book went on and on; a beautiful woman in a suit of armour that I would one day—but not that day—recognise as Joan of Arc; some bloke named Shakespeare reading a poem to his girlfriend; a couple of blokes named Wilbur and Orville discussing the technical difficulties of a very old looking aeroplane. Immediately, I was transported—as if a magic carpet he lifted me from the floor and whisked me away to journey the wonders of the world, as if the all-powerful genii from the lamp was mine to command.
    It was amazing. Here was a book that told me everything—all the things I wanted to know and a considerably greater number of things that I didn’t know I wanted to know as well. I became so completely absorbed that, when the man rose to leave, I didn’t quite realised what was happening. The man asked for his book back and got no response; my mother tried to seize it but found it torn away irritably. Only when they began to close in on me did I observe the threat, whereby took the only action possible—I tucked the book under my arm and made a run for it.