A new Harry Potter book is a cause for celebration in my sister's family, and they had been hotly anticipating the last one in the series. So, as is their tradition, Linda took her 12-year-old daughter and 18-year-old son to a local bookstore at midnight Saturday and purchased a copy for each of them (plus, I presume, one for her eldest, who is in Rome right now). My youngest niece stayed up all night, reading.
I don't have the energy to shop at midnight these days, so I followed my own Harry Potter tradition of pre-ordering the book on Amazon and allowing it to appear on my doorstep sometime before noon on Saturday. So I didn't get started on the thing until after lunch. I don't make a lot of time for book reading these days, but on those rare occasions when I do sit down for a good read, I tend to stick with it until it's over. So I went to bed at 4:00 a.m. (I would have finished a lot earlier if my family hadn't expected me to interact with them a little. I ended up taking a 4-hour break for dinner and stuff.)
I loved the book. I loved the way it ended. I admire J.K. Rowling immensely, for her imagination and gifts as a story teller. The magical world she has created and sustained through seven hefty tomes is rich and dense with detail, and after spending another weekendwith it (through the books and the movie, which I had to see a second time on Sunday), I find myself looking for magic in my own mundane life.
Which is why I am convinced that is the only explanation for the mysterious object in the corner of my bedroom: my laundry hamper, which must surely enchanted. How else do you explain the fact that it is never empty? I can spend an entire day doing loads of laundry, and when I return to the bedroom, it's full again.
It's magic, I tell you.