And then there's the row of Arthur Ransome, from which I took all kinds of fesity role models (ignoring Susan and Titty, however. Were girl children in the 1930s, presumably christened Letitia, really called Titty? it seems like a liability...), and then another row of solid children's classics, in hardback - and therefore probably Christmas presents to me in their own right: the Borrowers books; Bedknob and Broomstick - good on witches - and Winnie the Pooh - my mother's copies, and then my own bright green The House at Pooh Corner, which I remember reading in the back of the car in North Wales, on vacation, when I was about three. So - reading on the bus today (Jean Hanff Korelitz's Admission, which is a peculiarly compelling novel set with a background of the Princeton admissions system - social realism with a scary vengeance) will mean that I've been reading while in motion for over fifty years. No wonder I don't get travel sick.
As for continuity and rupture over 50 years...a bright green parrokeet has just flown past the window - just like LA. Most surreal.