We know about the ten years of uncelebrated birthdays, of hangers and passed down socks, of dirt floor birthday cakes. But don’t forget there was another boy-who-lived: who spent ten years of being compared to parents who would never know him. Another boy-who-lived, spending birthdays in st. mungos closed wards and getting Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum wrappers from a mum who doesn’t even know its her boy, let alone her boy’s birthday. Another boy-who-lived, who at each birthday had family gather and take bets to see whether or not this was going to be the year he’d prove to be a wizard or a squib. Of the boy, who’s happiest birthday was the one that came with a letter telling him he was a wizard, and it was going to get better.
At college the Very Bad Dirty Filthy Little Girl knew once and for all she was an agent for the forces of darkness. She was the worst kind of young woman: one who recognised the proactively politicised female she ought to become, then didn’t become it, but instead carried on being attracted to evil guys and having the wrong kind of sexual fantasies and making herself look as attractive as possible and ultimately accepting that she was too selfish and good-looking and lazy and perverted to ever live the kind of life she knew she ought to.
Duncan, Glen. Talulla Rising. for hotelsongs; happy birthday dear!