Could it be magic?
I am home five minutes and I find I have to alter my cast list. Not only is my son no longer a university student, he is a very smart graduate. His degree ceremony was one of the proudest moments of my life. Hundreds of Harry Potter cloaks and a great hall straight out of Hogwarts, just yards from where Number One son studied environmental geoscience at Bristol University. The organ played Bach and the masters in their assorted coloured cloaks and hats took to the stage dresses as Dumbledore and Co. Back in the village, however, something is not quite right. My morning dog walks are usually punctuated by the sound of Russell's Crow across the valley, cocka-doodle-dooing. But not any longer. While I was away, the noisy blighter discovered the invisibility cloak. He is no more. He is a dead bird. He has gone to meet his maker. The end was short and sweet, I am reliably informed. And he went very well with a glass of red wine, apparently. Which is a relief, really, because an a...