Superman, Dracula, The Avengers, Treasure Island... when you're ten years old, you can fall in love with any story so long as it's a good one. But what if you're growing up in a house without books? Christopher Fowler's memoir captures life in suburban London as it has rarely been seen: through the eyes of a lonely boy who spends his days between the library and the cinema, devouring novels, comics, cereal packets — anything that might reveal a story. But it's 1960, and after fifteen years of post-war belt-tightening, his family is not ready to indulge a child cursed with too much imagination... Caught between an ever-sensible but exhausted mother and a DIY-obsessed father fighting his own demons, Christopher takes refuge in words. His parents try to understand their son's peculiar obsessions, but fast lose patience with him — and each other. The war of nerves escalates to include every member of the Fowler family, and something has to give, but does it mean that a boy must always give up his dreams for the tough lessons of real life? Beautifully written, this rich and astute evocation of a time and a place recalls a childhood at once eccentric and endearingly ordinary.
