| It's about an interesting creature... a lonely Yeti, who's living in the snowy mountains all by herself, hoping for some company... Here goes: "If you're looking for some fun, or maybe even a friend, go up to the mountain to the path's end. There you'll find the Yeti, who lives all alone. She'll make you feel welcome in her snow-covered home. So pack up your gear, go slow and steady, the fun's just begun because the Yeti is ready!" This fun poem is from a new book called The Yeti Is Ready... And it's given my kids a new perspective on friendship & acceptance!" Click the red button below to take a look inside The Yeti Is Ready:M
THE BOY WHO LIVED
r. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say
that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the
last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious,
because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made
drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a
very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice
the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of
her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys
had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy
anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and
their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn’t think
they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs.
Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley
pretended she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her good-fornothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys
shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the
street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had
never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the
Potters away; they didn’t want Dudley mixing with a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story
starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange
and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr.
Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs.
Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his
high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs.
Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because
Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.
“Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car
and backed out of number four’s drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something
peculiar — a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn’t realize
what he had seen — then he jerked his head around to look again. There was
a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in
sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the
light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr.
Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his
mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive — no, looking at
the sign; cats couldn’t read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little
shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of
nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.
But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something
else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that
there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks.
Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups
you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of
these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly
together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young
at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emeraldgreen cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was
probably some silly stunt — these people were obviously collecting for
something . . . yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes
later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on
drills.
Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the
ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate on
drills that morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in broad daylight,
though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed
as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at
nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning.
He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls
and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when
he thought he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun
from the bakery.
He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of
them next to the baker’s. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know
why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too,
and he couldn’t see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them,
clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they
were saying.
“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard —”
“— yes, their son, Harry —”
Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the
whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his
secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished
dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back
down and stroked his mustache, thinking . . . no, he was being stupid. Potter
wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called
Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure
his nephew was called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy. It might have
been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she
always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame her — if
he’d had a sister like that . . . but all the same, those people in cloaks . . .
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he
left the building at five o’clock, he was still so worried that he walked
straight into someone just outside the door.
“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a
few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet
cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On
the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice
that made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could
upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles
like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!”
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete
stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He
was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was
imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn’t
approve of imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw —
and it didn’t improve his mood — was the tabby cat he’d spotted that
morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same
one; it had the same markings around its eyes.
“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly.
The cat didn’t move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat
behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let
himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his
wife.
Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all
about Mrs. Next Door’s problems with her daughter and how Dudley had
learned a new word (“Won’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When
Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the r. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say
that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the
last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious,
because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made
drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a
very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice
the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of
her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys
had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy
anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and
their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn’t think
they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs.
Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley
pretended she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her good-fornothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys
shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the
street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had
never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the
Potters away; they didn’t want Dudley mixing with a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story
starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange
and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr.
Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs.
Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his
high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs.
Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because
Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.
“Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car
and backed out of number four’s drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something
peculiar — a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn’t realize
what he had seen — then he jerked his head around to look again. There was
a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in
sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the
light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr.
Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his
mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive — no, looking at
the sign; cats couldn’t read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little
shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of
nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.
But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something
else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that
there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks.
Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups
you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of
these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly
together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young
at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emeraldgreen cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was
probably some silly stunt — these people were obviously collecting for
something . . . yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes
later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on
drills.
Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the
ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate on
drills that morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in broad daylight,
though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed
as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at
nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning.
He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls
and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when
he thought he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun
from the bakery.
He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of
them next to the baker’s. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know
why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too,
and he couldn’t see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them,
clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they
were saying.
“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard —”
“— yes, their son, Harry —”
Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the
whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his
secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished
dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back
down and stroked his mustache, thinking . . . no, he was being stupid. Potter
wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called
Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure
his nephew was called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy. It might have
been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she
always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame her — if
he’d had a sister like that . . . but all the same, those people in cloaks . . .
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he
left the building at five o’clock, he was still so worried that he walked
straight into someone just outside the door.
“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a
few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet
cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On
the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice
that made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could
upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles
like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!”
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete
stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He
was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was
imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn’t
approve of imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw —
and it didn’t improve his mood — was the tabby cat he’d spotted that
morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same
one; it had the same markings around its eyes.
“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly.
The cat didn’t move. It just gar. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say
that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the
last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious,
because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made
drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a
very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice
the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of
her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys
had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy
anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and
their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn’t think
they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs.
Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley
pretended she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her good-fornothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys
shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the
street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had
never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the
Potters away; they didn’t want Dudley mixing with a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story
starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange
and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr.
Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs.
Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his
high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs.
Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because
Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.
“Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car
and backed out of number four’s drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something
peculiar — a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn’t realize
what he had seen — then he jerked his head around to look again. There was
a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in
sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the
light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr.
Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his
mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive — no, looking at
the sign; cats couldn’t read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little
shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of
nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.
But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something
else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that
there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks.
Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups
you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of
these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly
together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young
at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emeraldgreen cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was
probably some silly stunt — these people were obviously collecting for
something . . . yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes
later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on
drills.
Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the
ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate on
drills that morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in broad daylight,
though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed
as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at
nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning.
He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls
and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when
he thought he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun
from the bakery.
He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of
them next to the baker’s. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know
why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too,
and he couldn’t see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them,
clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they
were saying.
“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard —”
“— yes, their son, Harry —”
Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the
whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his
secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished
dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back
down and stroked his mustache, thinking . . . no, he was being stupid. Potter
wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called
Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure
his nephew was called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy. It might have
been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she
always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame her — if
he’d had a sister like that . . . but all the same, those people in cloaks . . .
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he
left the building at five o’clock, he was still so worried that he walked
straight into someone just outside the door.
“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a
few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet
cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On
the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice
that made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could
upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles
like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!”
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete
stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He
was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was
imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn’t
approve of imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw —
and it didn’t improve his mood — was the tabby cat he’d spotted that
morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same
one; it had the same markings around its eyes.
“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly.
The cat didn’t move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat
behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let
himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his
wife.
Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all
about Mrs. Next Door’s problems with her daughter and how Dudley had
learned a new word (“Won’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When
Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the r. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say
that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the
last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious,
because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made
drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a
very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice
the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of
her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys
had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy
anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and
their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn’t think
they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs.
Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley
pretended she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her good-fornothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys
shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the
street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had
never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the
Potters away; they didn’t want Dudley mixing with a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story
starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange
and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr.
Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs.
Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his
high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs.
Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because
Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.
“Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car
and backed out of number four’s drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something
peculiar — a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn’t realize
what he had seen — then he jerked his head around to look again. There was
a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in
sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the
light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr.
Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his
mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive — no, looking at
the sign; cats couldn’t read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little
shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of
nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.
But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something
else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that
there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks.
Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups
you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of
these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly
together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young
at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emeraldgreen cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was
probably some silly stunt — these people were obviously collecting for
something . . . yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes
later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on
drills.
Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the
ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate on
drills that morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in broad daylight,
though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed
as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at
nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning.
He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls
and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when
he thought he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun
from the bakery.
He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of
them next to the baker’s. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know
why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too,
and he couldn’t see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them,
clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they
were saying.
“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard —”
“— yes, their son, Harry —”
Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the
whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his
secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished
dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back
down and stroked his mustache, thinking . . . no, he was being stupid. Potter
wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called
Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure
his nephew was called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy. It might have
been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she
always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame her — if
he’d had a sister like that . . . but all the same, those people in cloaks . . .
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he
left the building at five o’clock, he was still so worried that he walked
straight into someone just outside the door.
“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a
few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet
cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On
the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice
that made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could
upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles
like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!”
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete
stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He
was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was
imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn’t
approve of imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw —
and it didn’t improve his mood — was the tabby cat he’d spotted that
morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same
one; it had the same markings around its eyes.
“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly.r. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say
that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the
last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious,
because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made
drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a
very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice
the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of
her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys
had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy
anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and
their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn’t think
they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs.
Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley
pretended she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her good-fornothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys
shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the
street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had
never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the
Potters away; they didn’t want Dudley mixing with a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story
starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange
and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr.
Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs.
Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his
high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs.
Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because
Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.
“Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car
and backed out of number four’s drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something
peculiar — a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn’t realize
what he had seen — then he jerked his head around to look again. There was
a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in
sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the
light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr.
Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his
mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive — no, looking at
the sign; cats couldn’t read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little
shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of
nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.
But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something
else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that
there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks.
Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups
you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of
these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly
together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young
at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emeraldgreen cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was
probably some silly stunt — these people were obviously collecting for
something . . . yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes
later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on
drills.
Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the
ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate on
drills that morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in broad daylight,
though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed
as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at
nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning.
He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls
and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when
he thought he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun
from the bakery.
He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of
them next to the baker’s. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know
why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too,
and he couldn’t see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them,
clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they
were saying.
“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard —”
“— yes, their son, Harry —”
Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the
whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his
secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished
dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back
down and stroked his mustache, thinking . . . no, he was being stupid. Potter
wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called
Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure
his nephew was called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy. It might have
been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she
always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame her — if
he’d had a sister like that . . . but all the same, those people in cloaks . . .
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he
left the building at five o’clock, he was still so worried that he walked
straight into someone just outside the door.
“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a
few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet
cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On
the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice
that made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could
upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles
like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!”
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete
stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He
was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was
imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn’t
approve of imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw —
and it didn’t improve his mood — was the tabby cat he’d spotted that
morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same
one; it had the same markings around its eyes.
“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly.
The cat didn’t move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat
behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let
himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his
wife.
Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all
about Mrs. Next Door’s problems with her daughter and how Dudley had
learned a new word (“Won’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When
Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the r. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say
that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the
last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious,
because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made
drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a
very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice
the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of
her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys
had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy
anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and
their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn’t think
they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs.
Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley
pretended she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her good-fornothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys
shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the
street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had
never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the
Potters away; they didn’t want Dudley mixing with a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story
starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange
and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr.
Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs.
Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his
high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs.
Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because
Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.
“Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car
and backed out of number four’s drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something
peculiar — a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn’t realize
what he had seen — then he jerked his head around to look again. There was
a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in
sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the
light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr.
Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his
mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive — no, looking at
the sign; cats couldn’t read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little
shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of
nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.
But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something
else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that
there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks.
Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups
you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of
these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly
together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young
at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emeraldgreen cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was
probably some silly stunt — these people were obviously collecting for
something . . . yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes
later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on
drills.
Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the
ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate on
drills that morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in broad daylight,
though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed
as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at
nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning.
He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls
and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when
he thought he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun
from the bakery.
He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of
them next to the baker’s. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know
why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too,
and he couldn’t see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them,
clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they
were saying.
“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard —”
“— yes, their son, Harry —”
Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the
whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his
secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished
dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back
down and stroked his mustache, thinking . . . no, he was being stupid. Potter
wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called
Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure
his nephew was called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy. It might have
been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she
always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame her — if
he’d had a sister like that . . . but all the same, those people in cloaks . . .
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he
left the building at five o’clock, he was still so worried that he walked
straight into someone just outside the door.
“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a
few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet
cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On
the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice
that made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could
upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles
like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!”
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete
stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He
was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was
imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn’t
approve of imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw —
and it didn’t improve his mood — was the tabby cat he’d spotted that
morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same
one; it had the same markings around its eyes.
“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
