Ever since I went to the latest (and final...sniff, sniff) Harry Potter movie last weekend, I've been -- in my head -- talking with a British accent. I've had to be careful so as not to have it burst forth during work meetings.
I can't even say Harry Potter normally. I feel the need to say "Haaaarrrayhhh Pottahhh."
I feel the distinct urge to drink tea. And place my groceries in the boot of my auto. And declare everything to be "Brilliant!"
I'm going to miss those kids. I can't wait to see what the young actors do as grown-up stars. I wish them well. I'm nervous for them. I want them to find success apart from, or perhaps in spite of, their early career adventures.
And, with Tim and Henry off on their excellent adventure to Colorado next week -- and me with a new subscription to Netflix -- I feel the urge for an appropriate movie marathon. Lots of men in silk and women with big hair and corsets and cleavage giving Oscar-worthy performances. All the whilst speaking the Queen's English.
See. I've got it bad.
Edited to Add: OMG. I had no idea that the guy who plays Luna's father in HP is the same guy who played Spike in Notting Hill. AAAAUgh!! He's a riot!