Turns out, the nice bloke with the obnoxious name Hope’s been seeing for some time now is a wizard. You know, does magic - wand-waving, weird Latin chants (spells, Hope, spells), broomsticks, goblins and pixies; that sort of thing.
Good. Maybe he won’t think the worse of her when she tells him she’s one of those girls. Protests with the youth wing of the CND movement. Staunchly Labour. Thinks Harold Macmillan’s a right tit.
She’s surprised to discover Lyall Lupin doesn’t particularly care, scratch that, doesn’t know what she’s on about. But he’s quite obliging about it. He solemnly agrees with her when she tells him The Bomb’s a terrible invention that no one ought to be able to get their hands on. Nods sweetly when she tells him that Harold Macmillan’s Winds of Change is all a dodgy scam. Refreshing change from the Alfs and Harrys and wossnames who insist she can’t wear pants, leather jackets or smoke cigarettes.
Of course, nothing quite beats the look on his face the night she tugs him into the back of her da’s old, beaten-up Morris.