Immersing myself in the world of Harry Potter has been one of my favourite forms of escapism, aside from chocolate, pretty much since I could read the books aged 7. Considering the Hogwartian buildings, and with lectures as dull as History of Magic with Professor Binns, it seems apt to indulge in a little HP-related day-dreaming. However, it can be annoying when, having wandered happily through Kings after lectures, pondering the battle between The Boy Who Lived and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, you end up running into huge groups of Muggles (tourists), and realise that your bike needs fixing, your supervision’s in an hour, and you have rowing in the morning.
Depressing lack of magical powers aside, such is the power of the Potter series that, even on the one-hundredth reading, I still become completely immersed in the world of magic. Where it doesn’t matter if you didn’t finish your essay on time, because you can just spin that Time Turner and give yourself a few more hours, where laundry is a joke because house elves clean your socks, and good always wins out in the end. I know the stories back to front, so rarely read a full book at a time, instead opening it up half way through to join Harry, Ron and Hermione at various points in their Hogwarts career.
Upsettingly I am now too old to ever hope of receiving my letter via Owl Post, though getting my letter from Cambridge was admittedly almost as good. I still get to wear a gown, eat in a Great Hall and do ‘potions’ in chemistry labs. Cambridge is not quite as magical, but it’s ok because I know that whatever happens, and wherever I end up living, Hogwarts will always be there to call home.