The story goes like this:
In the summer twenty years ago, shortly before I began my final year in the medical school, I did a week of locum job as the assistant intern in the surgical ward (nominally under the King of the Round Table).
After an entire week of endless work and intense stress (with not-all-too-bad a payment), I passed a large book store on my way home, and I decided to buy myself a small gift before the term started.
In there, I found two attractive books selling in bargain price: The Joke, and The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie.
After a moment of consideration, I ended up buying the latter - and, since I was so impressed with the story, I read one detective fiction every weekend for the rest of my final year.
I am quite sure the course of event would be very much different if I chose the other one.
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