Harry, Harry Potter

I've now watched five Harry Potter films in close succession and it's making me depressed. There's two possible reasons for this: the Harry Potter films grow more depressing as the series goes on, or you'd get depressed if you watched any one of the Harry Potter films five times over.

We watched the fourth one (The Goblet of Fire) late last night when I was semi-blitzed on gin and tonic. That meant we didn't go to bed until 3am, which meant we woke up at midday with precisely half the day gone, and then I spent all afternoon doing paperwork. That's never a joyful way to spend the weekend, although tidying the accumulated junk from our table meant I rediscovered a missing ipod, some important letters from the Hong Kong & Shanghai Banking Corporation, and a pen. Perhaps if we'd left it another week the Holy Grail would have been at the bottom of the pile of paperwork, along with Hitler's dentures and a freshly laid dodo egg.

Not that I'm allowed eggs with my elevated cholesterol. We left the apartment at five and went to Mustafa, that quaint ginormous department store in Little India, where we bought fig rolls and Australian milk. Which isn't really taking advantage of the rich Indian culture in these parts, but does give you something to drink.

Unwisely, on return from Mustafa, I had the bright idea of watching the fifth Harry Potter (The Order Of The Phoenix) in which anything that could have been fun from Hogwarts is obliterated, with the subtext that government is at best self-deluding and at worst evil, and boarding schools shouldn't be interfered with. Hmm.

After that, the only thing left to do was to go for a run, but the light drizzle outside and my constant struggle to not go arse-over-tit on a wet manhole cover meant I was home in 15 minutes. Harry Potter never had this bother with his broomstick, did he?