We all turn eleven.
The year I turned eleven, JK might --- and I can only say might --- have gotten around to her very first and now-famous sketch of a greasy-haired, hawk-nosed, cruel and grumpy story character, whom the world would one day know as both the jerkass wizard chemistry teacher from hell, and a total sexbomb.
Feb. 17,
I wasn't the only one to make and seal written correspondence in old English style. Family friend Connor, a very artistic sort, sealed his birthday card with a little blob of red candle wax, into which he pressed a tiny H with a steel-stamp. Connor's father also came as a passable Severus.
In a heroic effort to maintain a semblance of calm around a dozen junior-graders --- or at least not commit infanticide --- while on basically zero sleep, the feared Professor Snape turned to knitting. A Slytherin scarf, at that!
Hey, I'm the one who decorated the cake. And the consumate Slytherin in the room. So of course I deserve the piece with that precious green and pearl snake on it.
No comments:
Post a Comment