My Affair with Mr Potter

I have a confession to make. I'm obsessed with a man. His name is Harry, he's 16 and he's a fucken' piece of children's fiction. (Sorry, bad joke I know. But it got your attention, didn't it?)

I started reading the latest Harry Potter instalment intermittently 2 nights ago and it has taken over my life like a bad acid trip. I missed a Nigella episode because of it. I've kept friends waiting twice because of it. I've even been spotted carrying it onto the MRT (all 600 pages) only to find half the schoolchildren on the train reading it too. Oh the indignity of it all.

Worst of all, it's ruining my sex life. I deliberately emerged from Attica on Wednesday at 2:30 a.m. (instead of my usual 3) so I could get an extra half an hour of quality time with Harry before I went to bed. And I must say my attempts to get laid were somewhat lackadaisical this week. I mean, what can an Argentinian Pilates instructor with absolutely stunning abs offer me over JK's Rowling's gifted imagination? Harry can do magic, ok.

So now its Friday night. Bad news, I'm still reading sluggishly. Good news, I'm on page 500-something out of 607. I have 2 hours to redeem myself, and catch DJ Dimitri play his set over at Zouk with a couple of girlfriends. Will I make it? The clock's ticking...