Midnight. The Irish Times owl is on her way to collect our copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. This fifth volume is big, and the owl, Jessica, is small, but tough and determined. She is somewhat aloof, and possessed of an impressive turn of speed.
Three years ago she battled through the summer rain and wind to deliver volume four, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, to me. Mission completed, she consumed six chocolate frogs before resting for an entire day in an old oak tree in the vast meadow by the river. She has a sense of the occasion and tends towards the theatrical.
Last time, on her approach to our isolated castle - an ancient, if modest, three-storey structure that has admittedly seen better days - she soared high in the air above us, then dived down at speed, only to fly away again keeping the book inches from our grasp. This "game" went on a few minutes - well, almost an hour. She is a bit wilful, often petulant, not the easiest of characters, but reliable.
Finally, with a gleeful look in her vast amber eyes, she hurtled downwards, dumped Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, on my head, hooted loudly and flew off to her perch high in the oak tree.
Tonight I was prepared. Having replaced my wizard's hat with a crash helmet of industrial density, I waited for the stroppy bird and the book. No sign of either. The sky was black, the moon was hidden. No stars were visible. Suddenly, movement. It was too big to be an owl. Approaching from the east were two blob-like points of light, coming closer and closer.
Headlights. It was a car, a blue Ford Anglia, that famous blue Ford Anglia. More battered than ever, it was being driven in a curiously wayward, ziz-zag fashion across the night sky. Despite its chaotic flight pattern, however, the vehicle was obviously heading towards our castle.
A final spurt brought it very close and then - bang! At precisely 1.20 a.m. the car nose-dived onto the crumbling ramparts. "I've brought your book," a female voice announced in triumph.
It was Caroline Walsh, a kindly Muggle, who has always been sympathetic to our wizarding community. "The owl collapsed, it was all too much for her. She only got half-way. I have her, here in the car. The house elf, Dobby, is that his name? An odd little person, isn't he? He summoned the car and then asked me to drive as he gets car-sick. He's in the car as well, he's made a terrible mess all over the back seat."
Caroline looked bewildered yet exhilarated, a Muggle in a Wizard's world. "I'm so sorry about the roof, it is a lovely castle, aside from the crashed car, but you can fix all that," she said enthusiastically, "with a flick of your wand." Meanwhile a deep sigh came from the car. No doubt Dobby about to be sick again. But no, it was our owl.
Despairing in defeat, she was a pitiful sight, head bowed, feathers in disarray, her natural arrogance muted. In her huge eyes surged the tragedy of centuries. As I said, she has a theatrical personality. But what had happened? It was the book, or rather it was the extra 130 pages. Those extra pages pushed the delivery that bit beyond our owl's strength. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix is 766 pages long; the previous doorstep runs to 636 pages. Therein lies the story.
Should the next book, volume six - yet to be named - follow this growth pattern, it could be almost 900 pages long. It is now inevitable. We need a heavyweight owl for these bigger jobs.
Eyes shining happily in the knowledge of a job well done, Caroline prepared to leave. As she had been so good about the book and had driven what is a difficult car to pilot, it would be churlish to cast a memory spell on her.
"Enjoy the book," she said. "You'd better start reading it right away. It's Saturday morning now. We need the review tomorrow."
Off she went, safe and sound, courtesy of a mild Transportious spell. She won't remember how she got home, though she will remember everything else. It doesn't matter; she can be trusted not to give interviews.
As for the reading, high-powered spectacles in position, it began. Feeling only slightly guilty about all those Muggles who had queued for hours, I climbed into my four-poster bed and, propped up by three fat goosedown pillows, I began. Whoosh. After the first few tentative pages, Harry's story was firmly on course.
On I read. My reading lamp is broken. I never much liked the look of it; it's one of those modern, ugly objects best suited to an office desk. So I placed a beautiful table lamp on the little chair by the four-poster. But the linen shade was not helping. Off it came, revealing the stronger light of a naked light-bulb.
Suddenly, I was at page 371 and Hermione was announcing, "Hagrid's back." Good, I could relax for a moment. I did. I must have. Then I awoke to a horrible smell.
One of the pillows had flopped over to the side and was resting on the hot light bulb. I pulled the pillow away. It had begun to smoulder. There was a black hole burnt through it. Grey light illuminated the window. It was still early. Just short of half-way through the book, I had had my own adventure.
A few minutes later and I could have emulated Fawkes, Professor Dumbledore's trusty pet phoenix that regularly self-ignites in order to be born anew.
Wide awake, I read the rest of the book - as, by now, will have thousands of other readers, with millions more to follow.