Being me though, at the age of eleven I decided to take everything to its logical screaming extreme and sort every single book I had according to the Dewey Decimal system. Yes, during my late pre-adolescence my shelves were ordered like a library. Literally. I still have my copy of Mr. Messy with a sticker on it saying “811.2”. (Goodness knows why, because that’s a code for ‘poetry’. Never let an eleven-year-old catalogue your books).
In my partial defence, I’m not the only one to push the classification system way beyond any sensible stopping point. Though if I ever stay the night in a New York hotel, I know which one I’d go for.