Wizarding ain't all it's cracked up to be

Hello dear muggle friends.

Daniel has kindly invited me, Harry Potter to be his guest blogger for the day. Personally I suspect it's mostly laziness on his part, but anyway I'm thrilled to have some excuse to access the internet (otherwise we Wizards aren't allowed to use it or the Ministry gets on our asses--what's with that anyway?)

As I write, this, I am on a broomstick, flying from Hogwarts. It's a cold clear night, so it's a good thing I'm wearing my hoodie jumper. Ron is somewhere behind me, I hear him complaining because a seagull just hit him in the face, which has only been recorded once before, to Fabio on a roller coaster (an object lesson in the danger of having too much hair).

I'm flying to London--but really, it's foggy and cold and now I'm wondering why I didn't just take a flue or find a portkey. I mean, really, I'm a freaking wizard, and this broom has no seat--who designed these things, it's digging into my... I wonder if I'll ever be able to have a little wizard or witch after riding this so much. That's why most quiddich players end up adopting Romanian refugees.

What is nice is that my magic pen can write while I'm flying--holy shit my feet are cold, and I've lost all feeling in my feet, and left buttock. For some reason I can feel my right buttock and wish I couldn't, as the damned broomstick seems to have splinters. So much for the FireBolt 3000, I clearly need version 2.3 of the firmware.

OK, I can see Big Ben--always the thing we see when we're descending down into London.

Why does this all feel not unlike the Peter Pan ride at Disneyland? Only freaking colder and with splinters? I am NOT amused.

OK, here I am at 12 Grimmauld place at last. And, of course, it's not here. That always freaks me out. OK, a few waves of my wand, and felisitus visibilitus, there it is... looking as cold and dark as ever.

Honestly, Muggles perfected central heating a century ago, and we're still fiddling with fireplaces and elves. And Kreacher is a total SOB. I don't care what anybody says about 7 years bad luck, I'd like to bitch slap him.

OK, I've got to go and see if I can get feeling back in my feet, and left buttock, as well as... hold on... accacio splinters... HOLY SHIT! That hurt. All right, I'm going to have to have Kreacher remove the splinters, he'll love that.

And why can't wizards simply stay at the W hotel, I mean, it's got a big W right there in the name, central heating, bath tubs that don't require elves to drag buckets of once warm water, and clean white fluffy towels--the towels here must be 100 years old and the last time I used one I first had to use my thumbnail to remove a dozen lesser Snorkacks, it's just gross.

What I wouldn't give for a chef's salad. We never get salads. And my fricking wand can't create food. Why is that? Magic can make everything but food? Who came up with these rules? I might take the Night bus to Taco Bell.

Sigh.

Love, Harry