where to buy stromectol Bentota I fell in love with the written word from the moment I learnt to read, and that combined with the family’s zeal for perusing everything that is printed, nurtured the relationship. My father bore the brunt of having a reading daughter. He enrolled me in the children’s section of the Romain Rolland Library and made the effort to take me there, riding on the carrier of his cycle (How many times I got the poor man into trouble with Mum, by carelessly dangling my legs into the rotating spokes – but Da’s escapades with me is for another telling). While I scanned the rows for books that interested me, he would patiently seat himself on one of the little chairs and read the newspaper that the librarian obligingly let him have. The library only permitted its members to borrow two books at a time and vacations, especially, saw me getting through a book a day and then Da had to pedal me back (despite my propensity for mischief ) for a return and borrow. That was when I got my first bicycle. It served three purposes – I would now be able to go to the library by myself, Daddy could depart on his transfer happy that his daughter would not be without her books and most importantly he would not be blamed, any further, for my bruises and scars. Every once in a while, the cycle would be replaced, most usually at Christmas, as I regularly outgrew them. My cycle gave me the much needed mobility to reach other libraries as well. The Little Lending Library on Mission Street was a big favourite, and often, squating between the rows of racks I would finish a couple of Archie Digests before setting off with a few novels for home consumption. When I try telling youngsters these days, who turn up their noses when it comes to reading books, that they are missing out on an entire universe of wonder, adventure magic and what not, their indulgent grins at this tok-tok Aunty’s passionate advocacy makes me want to give them one solid kottu. Their curiosity seeks fulfillment from sources other than the printed form and while our imaginations ploughed through descriptions, the media versions have robbed them of that mental exercise. The feel of a book, the intoxicating odour of one fresh from the press, the pleasure of turning the pages, the sadness when you realise that you are at the end of a wonderful tale…nothing surpasses the pleasure. And doing that on a rainy evening with a bowl of piping hot pumpkin soup and a few slices of garlic buttered bread – just perfect. I know all’s well in my world!