So, shredded dignity aside, I was told that this morning, bookshops across the nation would be opening their doors at 9 a.m. sharp to hordes of people all simultaneously scrambling to get a copy of this most precious of tomes. I was expecting children and parents alike to be madly screaming, claws at each others throats, tearing off bits of flesh and gnashing their teeth in their frothing mouths as they fought for the last copy. So, to avoid being completely trampled, I waited a whole extra half-hour, and then I headed down to the local Dymocks.
9.30 am. Where was the queue? Where was the fighting and screaming? I woke up early on a Saturday morning expecting to be entertained by a the sight of some mindless mob killing each other, and I all I got was this?
At the end of the non-existent queue were two shop assistants, perhaps completely underwhelmed with the response. A small but steady stream of people, mostly parents, headed into the shop, handed in their pre-order voucher, and were given a copy of the book in a non-descript paper bag.
I don't think J.K. Rowling is a particularly good author. I have actually read the potter books, and whilst the first few were reasonably amusing children's books, the last few have read like rambling, incoherent science-fiction novels. She's not quite as bad as L. Ron Hubbard, but seems to oscillate somewhere in-between Robert Jordan and Mills and Boon. When Briony is done with it, and when I've finished my journal paper (somewhere at t=infinity), I'll give it a read and maybe I will change my mind. Maybe.