When I was about eight years old, I visited an elderly lady, which I think was a widow of my dad's colleague. She lived in The Hague. Travelling there was a journey in itself. After the train ride, my parents and I walked through a broad avenue with Georgian houses on either side.
Arriving at our destination, we were led through the long hallway and into a room full of books. I still remember how my heart stopped. I LOVED this place. I loved the walls crammed with books, and the musty scent that came with it.
How I wanted to stay in that room, but... I was not one for speaking up, especially among strangers, so I followed the elderly lady, and my parents into the sitting room. Equally impressive, but it did not have books...
The woman's granddaughter (about my age, or perhaps a little older), joined us in the room.
I wanted to be this girl. I wanted to have a grandmother like her. (I loved my granny, but this was a whole new experience).
This girl was wearing a necklace with a plastic, eaten apple core... I wanted one. This was the only way I could pretend to be this girl. My parents did not understand. I did not explain.
Well 40 years later, I have bought my desired object and I hope it will bring me even closer to my writing and love of books.