After 'Harry Potter' came James Thurber, then Martin Amis, both of which I enjoyed much more, but understood much less. Rowling's message seemed simple to me; the world in which witches and wizards lived was one metaphysically superior to our own and to be a good wizard required a state of mind instead of physical characteristics or social status. A good wizard saw through superficiality and the books teach us that man is not delivered by fate, but by his or her own choices. To be muggle is to be superficial, neglectful of the world around us; to be wizard is to teach, learn and most importantly notice.

I read William Blake again, and thought the worlds of Thel and Ork more intricately chiselled and refined than that of Harry, Ron and Hermione. Feeling adventurous, I devoured 'War and Peace', then 'Beyond Good and Evil'; titles to rival 'Harry Potter'.

Yet, I was drawn continually back to the lumpy, multicoloured, tea-stained books that rested upon the bookshelves. I stumbled upon sites on the internet dedicated to the love and hatred of the series, some claiming that Hogwarts actually existed somewhere in Scotland.

I continued half-heartedly searching for a job, and in November 2004 received a request for interview at The Guardian newspaper, who were looking for a restaurant critic, not that I had any culinary experience.

"This is getting ridiculous Allen," my wife told me the night before. "I cannot support all four of us for much longer with you not having a job."

"What do you expect me to do? Clean toilets?"

"If that's what it takes! Yes!"

"Journalism is what I do."

I was refused sex that night, an unusual occurrence.

The train to Wapping was dull, the train back even duller with the knowledge I had performed extremely badly. A fleeting event on the platform of Kentish Town Station however provided some vague interest to the day. The frantic bustle that always took place during the London rush hour was all that consumed my consciousness, as well as a highly attentive mind, watching out for my wallet and mobile phone. Unusually paranoid of theft – probably a symptom of far too much time spent at home watching criminal masterminds on daytime television – I did not realise something had been slipped into the breast pocket of my jacket until I turned around to watch he departing train and was greeted with rather a strange sight. A man, about five foot tall, wearing thick-rimmed glasses and wearing a yellow-green cardigan winked at me, then put his hand in his own breast pocket, which was empty. In an instant he was gone with the train, headed toward Mill Hill East.

It was not until I was out the station that I thought to look in my own pocket, in which I found a small note reading,

Same place, same time, tomorrow – have something you may want to see

There was no clue as to who put it there, though by now I had no doubt it was the man in the yellow cardigan. Evidently, he thought me attractive and I was in some dilemma as to how to let him know I was not gay. I could do as he bid and go back, but this would surely be leading on a strange man. I decided the best thing to do would be not to go back.

Having made this decision just as I was walking up my garden path, I did not ready myself for the barrage of questions and accusations that would be thrust my way as soon as I entered the door.

"Dad! Did you get the DVD?"

"DAD! Mum says we can't go outside after dinner! It's so unfair! Dad!"

"Please tell me you got more milk Allen."

"DAD! Did-you-get-the-DVD!"

Without answering any of the questions, I quickly walked upstairs, avoiding any physical attachment which would keep me downstairs far too long for my liking. The London Tube is hot and I was sweaty. I needed a shower and at least an hour's peace. Crumpling up the scribbled note, I through it in the bin in the bathroom before throwing my clothes to the floor stepping, much more relaxed into the shower.