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didn't say, because I had no knowledge of it at the time, was that gutter pairs were something of a scam. They were a way of creating value out of something which, not long before, had only face value. The reason that the early ones were getting expensive—they began appearing with the Silver Wedding issue of 1972—was because a few dealers had found they had vast amounts of sheets of stamps that no one really wanted, and they conjured a market for them out of thin air. Their adverts in the stamp magazines had a gold rush element to them. 'Special Offer!' one of these ran. 'We strongly and wholeheartedly recommend the complete unmounted mint collection of Great Britain gutter pairs ... a total of 182 stamps ... special offer ... normally over £135 ... price per collection: £95!'
    The key to gutter pairs was the traffic light gutter pair—the one pair in any sheet with the central white strip featuring a small check dot of every colour used in its production. You would not get this for £95, and not even for £900. These days, more than thirty years later, you can find all the traffic light gutters for £100, and the regular ones for a few pounds. It didn't take long for people to come to their senses and realise that what they were buying were two stamps when they only needed one. The Post Office did nothing to discourage this.
    'I'll have one of everything you've still got on sale please,' I said to the man behind the counter. 'The Telephone set, and the Social Reformers, and the American Bicentennial and the new Roses set. All in gutter pairs.'

    'What do you like about stamps?' my mother asked as we walked up the Strand. This was a tough one, too. I liked their colour and design, and the fact that one could collect them, and the fact that they could be worth something. I don't think I articulated the thought at the time, but I now realise that collecting is about family. Collecting stamps is particularly about family. With stamps one follows a tradition handed down, and one makes new additions, and the boundaries and conventions are fairly well established. Deviate from the norm and you're in trouble; people frown; societies will shun; you'll have trouble selling on. Albums are like homes—ordered dwelling places, and when they become too small to contain the collection we buy something else, something bigger. We begin with the grandest ambition but then downsize; we find what makes us happy and pursue that. We hope that a big family and a big collection will see us through old age.
    The good news was, the Strand was the one place where stamp collecting needed no theorising. Here, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world; if you weren't collecting, what on earth were you doing in this street? In those days there seemed to be a stamp shop every ten yards. The Stamp Centre was there, incorporating several specialist dealers. Bridger & Kay and Vera Trinder were close by in Bedford Street, W. E. Lea was opposite in John Adam Street. On a Saturday the treats began much earlier, at the market underneath the Arches by Charing Cross. Here I could afford a few spacefillers and commemorative issues that appeared before I started collecting, including the 1957 World Scout Jubilee Jamboree and the 1962 Ninth International Lifeboat Conference. And I still have the secondhand magazines I bought for a few pennies each.
Stamp Magazine
contained articles headlined 'Postmarks, Places and People' and 'International Reply Coupons—New Design!' There were also articles specifically for beginners on the meaning of philatelic terminology, like
tête-bêche
(two or more joined stamps, with one upside down) and advice on how to look for priceless stamps on old documents in grandma's loft. This would have been fine if grandfather hadn't got there first, and sold anything half-decent to dealers or friends. By the time I began collecting in the 1960s, the world had got wise to the value of stamps.