Greetings, greetings; compliments and adulations. Once again, I find myself here, writing this article, this blog, this assembly of words, for you, Reese, and for whomever may be fortunate enough to be reading this.
On that note, for a little experiment, I wonder if anybody reading this would be so kind as to comment on this humble discourse below, merely for my own knowledge and pleasure.
Well, I am writing this on Monday 26th May 2008, the last day I have before I turn sixteen. Strange as it seems, the progression from fifteen to sixteen isn’t substantially important to me: I suppose it’s because I’ve never really thought of myself as fifteen years old. One might say that this depletes my appreciation of my youth, but this is not true. Anyway, enough of my wretched musings.
It has come to my knowledge that every year my birthday week brings with it the most miserable, dreary, and cheerless weather that our great atmosphere is able to bestow upon us. This makes it incredibly hard to hold a successful birthday party. I have had gatherings in the garden with my friends, many years ago, where the wretchedness has descended upon us, forcing us inside the house. Gazebos have been worshipped like gods that will save us from the agony of standing in the rain wearing only a polyester Cinderella costume bought in Woolworths (I am not, unfortunately, referring to myself; I was clad in a very fetching Captain Hook outfit, complete with eye-liner moustache). Bouncy castles have been abandoned and left to grow limp and wet, whilst barbeques have been transferred to the oven and frying pan, causing widespread disappointment. One year, we had the foresight to book a splendid little hall in which we held a delightful fancy-dress party; the only problem was that it was gloriously sunny outside.
Previously on Consequent Bloggers:
QUESTION 3:
If you were given two tickets to travel to any place at any time (fictional or non-fictional), who would you take, where would go you and why?
A wonderful question, and one which I pondered for a considerable amount of time. At last I concluded that I would have to agree with you: France in the late twentieth century, Cheshire in the late eighteenth century, or London in the early twentieth century, cannot compare to the majesty of the Wizarding World.
On that note, for a little experiment, I wonder if anybody reading this would be so kind as to comment on this humble discourse below, merely for my own knowledge and pleasure.
Well, I am writing this on Monday 26th May 2008, the last day I have before I turn sixteen. Strange as it seems, the progression from fifteen to sixteen isn’t substantially important to me: I suppose it’s because I’ve never really thought of myself as fifteen years old. One might say that this depletes my appreciation of my youth, but this is not true. Anyway, enough of my wretched musings.
It has come to my knowledge that every year my birthday week brings with it the most miserable, dreary, and cheerless weather that our great atmosphere is able to bestow upon us. This makes it incredibly hard to hold a successful birthday party. I have had gatherings in the garden with my friends, many years ago, where the wretchedness has descended upon us, forcing us inside the house. Gazebos have been worshipped like gods that will save us from the agony of standing in the rain wearing only a polyester Cinderella costume bought in Woolworths (I am not, unfortunately, referring to myself; I was clad in a very fetching Captain Hook outfit, complete with eye-liner moustache). Bouncy castles have been abandoned and left to grow limp and wet, whilst barbeques have been transferred to the oven and frying pan, causing widespread disappointment. One year, we had the foresight to book a splendid little hall in which we held a delightful fancy-dress party; the only problem was that it was gloriously sunny outside.
Previously on Consequent Bloggers:
QUESTION 3:
If you were given two tickets to travel to any place at any time (fictional or non-fictional), who would you take, where would go you and why?
A wonderful question, and one which I pondered for a considerable amount of time. At last I concluded that I would have to agree with you: France in the late twentieth century, Cheshire in the late eighteenth century, or London in the early twentieth century, cannot compare to the majesty of the Wizarding World.
Hello. My name is Adam, and I am a Harry Potter fanboy.
I would not like to travel into the future, for it is a dangerous place in which, or with which, to meddle. So that leaves either the present or the past, as is a painfully obvious fact. I suppose I would go with what you said: I would go to just after the war, so that I could experience the beginning of a new age without the fear of Voldemort and his followers. It’s bizarre, really, that out of every location and time period on, and in the history of, this planet, we chose a place which, in essence, doesn’t exist. But I think this just demonstrates J. K. Rowling’s extraordinary achievement in creating a world which does seem real, and does seem appealing to us. I would take my sister, Jessica, for she too delights in this world.
On an entirely different subject, we went to Lanhydrock House yesterday, in Bodmin. It’s the most glorious building: built in the seventeenth century, and containing many years of life and progression. Most of it inside is late Victorian, but the gardens are timeless. Unfortunately, I forgot to take my camera with me, so the only photographs I have are by other people—
All the way around, all me and my sister could think of was stories: histories to dozens of rooms and hundreds of items; sinister murders in the grounds and secret affairs in the bed chambers. But my sister (who is also a writer) managed to attain some very good plot ideas, or sparks of ideas, so it seems our slight lack of interest in some parts of the building were for good reason. 
QUESTION 4:
What would be your idea of a perfect day?
I think this is a really interesting question, and one which can obviously tell you a lot about a person. You can do anything you want, Reese. Think carefully.
My answer is as follows.
Most of my day would involve writing. I would wake up refreshed and sparkling, with a great new idea for my novel. I would sit down and write at least two thousand words, before taking a break to eat a highly satisfying lunch. After that, a good dose of efficient composing would be nice, before a few hours spent in good company in generally pleasant surroundings. Perhaps I might see a play, have a meal, and discover at the most unexpected moment that that twenty pound note which I hideously mislaid several weeks ago was, in fact, in my coat pocket all along, and I would spend it on others (something which is usually very gratifying). I do not ask for much: you will not find me wishing to win the lottery, or to spend the night with a Brazilian lap-dancer. Heaven forbid.
My chocolate birthday cake is cooking, now, and a sublime scent of warm chocolate is spreading throughout the house. I must go, but not to eat the cake (I shall be doing so tomorrow, after I have spent the day traipsing around the streets of Exeter, leaving with several books, no doubt, and a rather lighter wallet).
As an ending note, I am officially modifying the time-limit rule so as to accommodate your holiday. You have until Monday 16th June to write your blog; is that enough time? If not, feel uninhibited to notify me, and I will amend the rule appropriately.
Until then, your friend,
Adam.
P.S. Reader, don’t forget to comment, if it’s not too much trouble. It will be appreciated, I can assure you.
