‘Harry Just Drives Me Potty’

By CALVERT, Kathryn

Well, as painful as it is to say this, I confirm that my household does have one dedicated, nay obsessed, HP fan

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I DON’T like Harry Potter. There, I’ve said it. Oh my God, what a relief! That massive carbuncle of dislike has now been lanced. I’m free to go about my life unencumbered again.

What a huge weight off!

Having spilled the beans, though, I have to admit life’s pretty hard for people like me.

You know, people who’d rather have a root canal without anaesthetic than read the latest instalment in the life of a tortured young wizard and his angst- ridden friends, people who’d rather lick public toilet floors in outback India or pole-dance on prime time telly with Rodney Hide or spend a whole weekend in an isolated Himalayan ice cave with no one but David Benson-Pope to talk to.

You get the drift.

Now, I fully understand the reasons why so many people have taken Harry Potter and made him an honorary family member.

And before someone ‘booky’ looks up Lord Voldemort’s phone number and blabs on me, I admit Harry Potter has made reading cool again.

I also have to reveal that I’ve been to two Harry Potter movies with my kids in tow, and have sat on my seat edge waiting for the plot to thicken. Trouble is, that was because I needed the bathroom.

How, I hear you ask, do you know all the Harry Potter lingo if you detest the books so much?

Well, as painful as it is to say this, I confirm that my household does have one dedicated, nay obsessed, HP fan.

That’s right – the hubby.

Anyone intimate with our family will realise that there are half a dozen things my husband enjoys above all else. Cricket, obviously. Then dishwasher stacking and recycling.

Making soup is the fourth, then supping a beer with his mates at his usual suburban bar once a week.

The sixth passion is by far his strongest – collecting Fly Buys points. He’s been known to drive until his very last kilometre of petrol in order to find the service station that offers points with the litres, and he drives the family batty by refusing to shop anywhere but New World for groceries, even if we have to travel 100km to find one.

Every month or so, he crows delightedly at his points total, and shakes his head stoically at any attempt to spend them on something special.

So, the fact that he recently considered using some points to pre- order the latest Harry Potter book shows just how hooked he is.

But back to the burning issue at hand — me. This time of the year — when HP books are released — it’s sheer hell for people like me.

Seems that everywhere we turn, there are HP books, HP movies, HP lunchboxes and even HP jellybeans being thrust down our throats.

Turn on the television or pick up the newspaper, and all you get are children dressed up in silly witch hats and fake scars, with adults (who should know better) donning beards and flowing caftans that do nothing for the hips.

Believe me, if I get any more updates on J. K. Rowling’s burgeoning bank balance, I will burst a Muggle brain cell.

Having said that, we had our own versions of Harry Potter when we were kids. I wonder whether my mother hated Nancy Drew with a passion, or detested the ground that Trixie Belden walked on.

Grabbing that prized brand new copy of The Hardy Boys or Secret Seven out of Fitzroy School’s library was tantamount to winning the US presidential election. I wasn’t that fast on my feet, so by the time I got my hands on them a full month later, they were always dog- earred, stained, doodled on and often covered in a sticky substance you didn’t want to identify, even if you could.

I absolutely adored Sweet Valley High, the saccharine exploits of blonde-haired, blue-eyed twin American girls who sprinkled joy, fun and sunshine wherever they went. Of course all the guys loved them, but they never ‘made out’.

At 14, I discovered Mills and Boons romance novels, and spent several years immersed within a world of dark-eyed, firm-hipped Italian counts and passionate Spanish dons with squillions in the bank and a penchant for English girls with long brown hair.

So I guess the idea of an orphaned English boy with long brown hair and a penchant for Asian girls who just happens to be an amateur sorcerer that’s due to save the world from the dark forces isn’t that far-fetched, when you really think about it.

What grates me about Harry Potter is the help his author has had from the world media.

Rowling is an excellent writer, and she deserves credit, but there are countless others – including our own David Hill – who are just as gifted at telling a story to our young generations as she is.

Do they get the same public adoration, the same media minutes, the same hoopla whenever a book is released? Do they sell 8.3 million copies of one book in 24 hours? Not on your nelly.

“You know,” my teenager divulged a couple of years ago after forcing his way through the first chapter of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.

“If Harry went through all this book says he does, when would he have time to study, eat, have a shower or go to the toilet?”

Good point. Answer that one, HP fans.

(c) 2007 Daily News; New Plymouth, New Zealand. Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning. All rights Reserved.