I confess to being a fan of all things J.K. Rowling (not to mention things British in general). I revel in her books like a kitty does her catnip. Immensely.
Once upon a time I was in a local religious (please, don't go there) writer's group, and there were some snarky comments made about Rowling's writing not being all that good. Please. Jealousy about someone's success just isn't pretty. You can't argue the incredible creativity she gives us in the HP series, reminiscent of Lewis Carroll's (aka Charles Lutwidge Dodgson) Alice in Wonderland. I only dream of such imagination.
Now the younger kids and I are embarking on a week-long Harry Potter marathon, watching all the episodes up to the Half Blood Prince. I smugly submit it's a cool way to pass the sweltering daytime hours munching on Bertie Botts.
So thanks for the journey J.K., and reminding me why I like Hedwig and Pigwidgeon and Errol and...
Credit: Photo courtesy of www.thecutereport.com