What did you talk about this week?

It's been a long week (not) in the Fibro. The Builder has been flat out with bathroom renos, I have been flat-out with book edits, and the boys have been flat out... being boys. So our topics of conversation have been somewhat more narrow than usual. But that doesn't mean there were few of them. No sirreee.

Bath enamel, plastering, taps, lights, kitchen colours, kitchen colours, kitchen colours, internet access, Friday Night Lights, community grants, breakfast, weeds, the collective noun for a group of Harry Potters, Sherlock Holmes, Robin Hood, shiraz, dressing gowns, pipes, bad Chinese takeaway, hats, coffee, wife swapping (don't ask!), novels, writing, Dianne Blacklock, Twitter, blogging, Cars 2, tennis, moving house.

What did you talk about?

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Harry Potter, Enid Blyton, Captain Underpants: One night at the book fair

If there's one thing that bonds my family together it's a second hand book fair. There is not a member of my clan who can pass up the chance to rummage around in piles of yellowing pages, searching for... who knows what? Which is how Sister B and I found ourselves speeding off into the night last week during my visit, leaving our combined offspring in the tender care of LOML (visit Maxabella if you haven't met him, he's a peach), en route to meet Sister C at the local charity book fair.

It was 8pm. The book fair was open until 9pm. Plenty of time, given it was but ten minutes up the road. Only it wasn't. By the time we'd missed the turn-off twice, squinting in the dark, and driven up the highway until we could find another right-hand turn (raise your hand if you've never been in that position in Sydney...), shrieking at each other between hysterical laughter because the whole thing was just so, so funny, it was 8.30pm before we screeched into a park near the hall in which the fair was held.

Or, sort of near. By the time we'd puffed up the hill, beside building site, around the corner and down a dark stretch of highway, it was 8.35pm. "I bet Sister C is inside, blithely browsing, not even thinking of us," muttered Sister B. I could almost hear the classical music playing as I pictured Sister C's serene joy. As opposed to the heavy metal thunder that would accompany our frantic run to the starting line.

"Good God, we've only got 25 minutes," shouted Sister B, throwing coins into the Donation bottle as she made a beeline for Children: Classics. I was right behind, emptying the silver from my over-burdened wallet. I was already loaded down by The Secret Garden, The Call of the Wild, a random Famous Five novel, and the Postman Pat Story Treasury (a classic??) by the time Sister C wandered over a few minutes later. "Did you even look to see if I was here?" she asked. Er, no, we had to admit.

Systematically, we made our way up and down the children's book tables. "Captain Underpants?" I asked, holding it aloft. "Mine!" said Sister C, taking it for Nugget. "Anyone seen any Zac Power?" asked a frazzled looking woman. "Not a one," said Sister B, sadly.

The organisers announced the 'last books' warning. Ten minutes to go. "I need a fire engine book," I said, muttering it under my breath, over and over. "I've got Inventors for Mr7," said Sister B. "Find me some Ladybird readers." Sister C pounced on a copy of the first Harry Potter for $1, touting it as the bargain of the day. Then she found me a different copy of The Secret Garden - "less girly cover and $1 cheaper," she said, handing it over. "Win/win."

By the time the organisers generously helped us out the door just after 9pm, we'd managed to collect a box of books each. Piles and piles of reading pleasure. Adding up to a princely donation from each of us to the charity in question. And we had not even made it out of the children's area. Sister B glanced longingly at the gardening books. "I saw a Paul Bangay over there, I'm sure," she said.

Then she looked at me. "Probably a good thing we only had 25 minutes," she said, hefting her foam box of books under her arm for the long walk back to the car.

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About a boy: true love sticks

Mr7 has long been a man of passion. When he was two and discovered The Wiggles, it was Hot Potato city round these parts. He insisted on wearing yellow and would answer to nothing but "Sam".

The Wiggles were replaced by Ben 10. Ben 10 was sideswiped by Star Wars. Star Wars was blindsided by Zac Power and Captain Underpants. And now we have reached the zenith of his affections. If he was stuck on those other loves, he is glued to Harry Potter.

When he was into Ben 10, he wore a big watch. When he was into Star Wars, he tied a baby wrap around his neck and became Luke Skywalker. With Zac Power he made spy cards. As Harry, he draws a zigzag scar on his forehead. With texta. He walks the walk, does our Mr7.

He also talks the talk. Nothing but the talk. Today, the Fibro is full of shouts of "Expelliamus!" "Wingardium Leviosa!" "Accio Nimbus2000!" Etcetera. He ambushes me with questions about whether Harry's wand would be longer than his arm or shorter. He wants to know about the Tri-Wizards tournament and will tell me, in exquisite detail, about how he'd go about getting past a Hungarian Hornback (or whatever type of dragon it was that Harry defeated). He is stymied by the fact that I will not let him read past book three. The themes get too dark. Harry gets too damn grumpy.

Last night, as he was leaping about the back deck trying to levitate his brother with a coathanger, I turned to The Builder.

"Do you reckon he's like this at school? Talking about nothing but Harry Potter."

No pause. "Yep," he answered.

"He does tend to get stuck on one thing. Would you call him obsessive?"

He paused. "Nope. I'd call him male."

Do you have boys? Are they serial stickers as well? Are girls the same?

Wild about Harry

Mr6 and I are reading Harry Potter and The Philosopher's Stone together. Last year, I read it to him. He loved it. Could recount every detail. Then someone from school lent him the DVD. I warned him he wouldn't like it. This is a kid who has nightmares at the slightest provocation. Somehow I felt that Voldemort was large provocation. But he was not to be dissuaded.

So I let him watch it. With these words ringing in his ears: "I will let you watch this so that next time I tell you that you are too young for a movie you will believe me."

Five nights of waking up screaming later, he believed me. "I thought Fluffy was soft and purple," he said of the three-headed doberman depicted in the film.

"I wish you still did," I answered.

The unfortunate side-effect was that he wouldn't even read the second book with me. We'd begun it, he was enjoying it. Post-movie, it was pushed so far to the back of the book shelf that we have yet to find it again.

No-one was more surprised than me when he bought out the first book again last week. "Let's read this," he said. "I've forgotten what happens."

This time, we're taking it in turns to read. I love Harry Potter. I do. I read them all before I even had children. They're just fun. A rollicking good read. Say what you like about J.K Rowling's literary prowess, the woman knows how to write a great story.

So far, so good. No sign of nightmares or even unsettled dreams. Then again, no sign of Fluffy yet, and only the slightest mention of He Who Shall Not Be Named. I have my fingers crossed we'll get to the end and he'll want to go on to Book Two.

Then we'll just have to find it...

Speaking of reading, don't miss your weekly dose of quality blogs at Lori's Flog Yo Blog Friday.