It was the frog that pushed me over the edge. I’ve never been a Harry Potter fan myself – I was already out of kids’ books when they first came out, and those clever grown-up covers weren’t enough to tempt me back – but I’d always admired JK Rowling from afar. Who wouldn’t? A writer whose imagination transfixed the world, whose riches now exceed those of the Queen, but who has founded a children’s charity, pays her taxes in full, and remains both poised and politically engaged: as role models go, it is hard to think of a better one.
So I was pleased when my seven-year-old son went Harry Potter crazy. Having never read to himself before, he was suddenly racing through book after book, his bedside light on late into the night. His brother and several of his friends caught the bug – just as the Suez canal flowed through Clarissa Eden’s drawing room, Hogwarts overshadowed our house, as children constantly dashed about on broomsticks, casting spells and looking for snitches.
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