I mentioned my love for a certain fictional story in my recent “Me, Myself & I” post, It was a short paragraph and I didn’t really feel like it did my love for this tale justice. So, I of course decided to compose a post all of its own.
Harry Potter came into my life when a mother decided to start reading The Philosophers Stone to her daughter each night before she traveled to the land of nod each night. I loved it straight away and would bargain with my mum for just one more chapter per night, whilst telling her off for changing the characters voices and accents each time she picked the book back up.
The series of books were the first of which I started reading on my own, pausing only to double check how to pronounce certain words. Each time a new book was released I would wait in anticipation, ready to devour it as soon as it landed in my lap.
The first tattoo I had inked onto my skin was of the Deathly Hallows… I mean, it just had to be really didn’t it? I had it a couple of months after my eighteenth and still love it to this day, even if it is a little rough around the edges.
I feel a huge urge to read the books again at this time of year, as the leaves start to tumble to the ground and the nights start to draw in; the want to be closer to a story that makes me feel safe becomes stronger. I still don’t think much will beat curling up on the sofa with a cup of tea and a couple of mince pies, to watch one of the eight films.
If I could attach one word to the world that these stories envelop me in it would be comfort. When I submerge myself into these tales of witches and wizards I am taken to a place far away from the stresses and worries of adult life; and I think it is wholly important for us all to have some form of escapism within the confines of the daily grind.
So there we have it, an ode to Mr Potter and a big old thank you to JK Rowling for giving me something to be a geek over.