Somehow I missed the Hogwarts Express
I have a confession to make. This isn’t easy, but I feel the time has finally arrived to come clean.
No doubt, my actions will bring shame upon my family, friends, colleagues and various stores I frequent, but I can no longer hide in the shadows. If there is a God, I pray he forgives this twisted soul and all its hideous imperfections.
Here goes: I don’t care much for Harry Potter.
There, I’ve said it. Spelled it out, Hogwarts and all. Potter-fans be damned.
I can already hear the shrieks as the villagers gather their torches and pitchforks and set out to burn the (not-heretic? un-witch?) defiant muggle.
I know I’m a marked man and will most likely be bludgeoned to death by broom-wielding 12-year-olds with John Lennon specs they’ve popped the lenses out of.
But before you shout at me in Latin and glass me with a bottle of butter beer (is that a proper HP reference?), let me explain.
To begin with, you should know that I don’t dislike JK Rowling’s sweeping series at all. It’s the epitome of imagination- a twisting, ingeniously inventive tale of friendship, honour, duty and sacrifice.
Kids returned to the written word and bookstores were able to slam their doors in repo men’s faces.
It was also wonderful to see someone become a billionaire through their literary efforts and dogged determination.
Having said that, I can’t be bothered seeing ‘Harry Potter and the Adjective of the Noun part 12’.
I wish I could, but I can’t.
You see, after reading the first three books and watching the first four films, I got sort of bored.
Maybe it was the fact I didn’t read them in one long continuous chain, but I just couldn’t feel the mania.
I felt like the only girl in 1964 who didn’t scream in ecstasy at the opening chord of ‘A Hard Day’s Night’, and crossly told her friend “that’s not how you spell ‘beetle’.”
I feel like a blind guy at the Playboy Mansion.
Humbug. double humbug.
I recently had to quietly leave the room because my mates were arguing over some finer aspect of Potter lore. How very embarrassing.
In the early 80s, kids were getting sucker-punched in the chops for knowing Princess Leia’s surname was “Organa”. They were branded ‘nerds’- freaks of nature. How things have changed.
Because I don’t know the air-speed velocity of a Golden Snitch (African or European?), I’m the nerd. I’m the freak.
But I’m not angry you see. I just feel like I’ve missed out on something. I’ll never get to know the thrill of reading that final page with bursting anticipation.
Never will I attend a premier dressed like a graduand of the University of Lame Hats.
I’ll never get to ponder at what point in the film franchise one is allowed to say Hermione is attractive without being labelled a pedophile.
I’ve been told, however, that it’s never too late to get on the Hogwarts Express.
It is, after all, where all the cool kids seem to be. Looks like I’ve got a long night on Wikipedia ahead of me.
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