Sitting here at the end of Harry

So this weekend I did something quite unusual and stayed in. Both Friday and Saturday, only venturing out at get waxed, do some laundry and grocery shopping, buy some new shoes and a skirt, do some DJ practice and go to the gym. Anywhere outside of New York that would take some time. Here, it's all within ..I don't know....200 square meters. Or 500, max.

I stayed in this weekend to spend my last moments with Mr Potter, Hermione and Ron. Friday night I started book six, (again - the details of Horcruxes having faded in the past year or so), and by Saturday was half way through. Given that I'm not the fastest reader, and I DID have all this other stuff to do, I only finished it this morning, Sunday.

Tonight instead of embarking on the final journey (Book 7), I called my Kiwi friends and we had a Flight of the Conchords night of takeaways (delivery) and cocktails. It was fun, but am I really just putting off the inevitable? That whether or not Harry dies (and I don't know and will not guess) either way, it is over between us. All these years, and this is the last. At the same time I HAVE to read it soon, otherwise someone will spill and I'll be forced to defenestrate them.

The book 'Harry Potter and the Deathy Hallows' sits beside me as I procrastinate further, writing a blog post that I haven't thought about in terms of positive psychology, but which I'm devoting time to anyway. Done the dishes. Mucked about on Facebook. Updated my Ipod.

It's not only the end of the series, it's the end of the guessing and the extrapolation. It's the end of passionate discourses with friends on the other sides of the Atlantic and the Pacific oceans.

What's pretty interesting is that this is the first book I've come across that has no text on with the back cover or the side flaps, except to say, on the front side flap that 'WE NOW PRESENT THE SEVENTH AND FINAL INSTALLMENT IN THE EPIC TALE OF HARRY POTTER'.

How incredible is the human mind...the mind of J.K Rowling that conjured the magical series, and the minds that have developed such an emotional and mental tie to a work we know is entirely of fiction. So much so that - well, in my case - I would forgoe a weekend of real world activities in honor of this large piece of cut up tree + ink.

Don't know what I'm getting at here, really. Think maybe I'm just putting it off.

Righto, then, Harry...