Like, it seems, half the rest of the Western world, I will be visiting my dealer on Saturday to purchase a copy of the latest and last Harry Potter novel. I'll get round to reading it soon but I'll probably be third in line in my household. First, of course, will be my 14-year old daughter, C, followed closely by Herself. Your obedient servant has, in years past, come to believe this is some sort of indication of his standing in life. The eight-year-old son will be playing basketball and getting stuck into his Lego Star Wars game on the PlayStation to worry too much about the whole thing. (Which reminds me that I should hunt out the first volume in the series and see if he wants to read it. He's about the right age. And he told me yesterday he was out of Zac Power books.)
Sitting on the couch last night, C was checking her email and announced that she had been invited to a Saturday afternoon birthday party.
"What time?" Herself asked - ever the practical one.
"One till four", C said.
I turned to look at her. "But that's no good," I said.
"Why? What are we doing?" It's winter, it's wet and it's cold. What could we possibly be doing?
"Saturday's Harry Potter Day," I said.
"Oh my god," C said. Fourteen-year-olds say this all the time. I just think of Charlton Heston at the end of "The Omega Man", and "The Planet of the Apes." "I'll have to cancel."
"No, I think you can probably finish it before bedtime." When the previous HP novel arrived she took it to bed and didn't leave until she'd finished. A bladder to die for.
"I'm going to reply and say I can't make it." She was already typing furiously.
"You can't do that," Herself said, "she's your best friend...You are going, aren't you?"
"Course."
Somewhere in the past year she's started to pick up a sense of humour. I'm not sure who I should thank for that, but I would like to find them and shake them by the hand. Life is so much more bearable with a 14-year-old who knows how to play a joke on her friends.
