Well you seemed too busy to call him a prat and I thought someone should.

If I wasn't a writer, I would be depressed.

But I was the most unashamed lone parent you were ever going to meet.

I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost . . . but still, I was alive.

For in dreams we enter a world that is entirely our own. Let them swim in the deepest ocean or glide over the highest cloud.

I always advise children who ask me for tips on being a writer to read as much as they possibly can. Jane Austen gave a young friend the same advice, so I'm in good company there.

Gosh, what a gripping story. You must have been simply terrified. Meanwhile we went to Godric's Hollow and, let's think, what happened there, Harry? Oh yes, You-Know-Who's snake turned up, it nearly killed both of us, and then You-Know-Who himself arrived and missed us by about a second. Imagine losing fingernails, Harry! That really puts our sufferings into perspective, doesn't it?