At the age of 8 I could tell a diplodocus from a brontosaurus (more gracile, longer tail), an allosaurus from a tyrannosaurus (the teeth are the giveaway), and a stegosaurus from a triceratops (oh, come on.) And of course I still can. Anything laid down that early sticks.
The first book I owned was Robinson Crusoe (a gift from my only - and thankfully distant - aunt). I never read it. Its bulk was too daunting, its print too small. The next dozen books I owned, numbers 2 to 13 of my life, were about dinosaurs. I didn't read them either. I engulfed them. I absorbed them. I took them into my flesh. Even death will not part us. We'll go down together, the dinosaurs and I.
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By the age of 10 the dinosaur craze was over. The flush of love, the irresistible tide, had surged and subsided, as love does. But it had left, as it sometimes does, both knowledge and affection.
Quite why I fell for dinosaurs at that age I don't know, though it is common among boys. I liked the big ones best, the giant herbivores with thigh bones the size of cars, tails the length of a cricket pitch, bodies that needed to stand in water so as not to collapse under their own weight. And among the carnivores I liked the big boss predators, the ones that were not themselves predated, that had teeth the size of my leg and that knew no foes except hunger, time, and of course, as it happened, meteors.