Bought me a wand.
After dining with my belle at the cramped Block Place café named after the Spanish guitarist, I wandered down a Melburnian equivalent of Knockturn Alley in search of Mr Ollivander's Wand Shop. After announcing my intention to purchase one, I was presented with several to try, which I expectantly pulled from their tubes, and waved them around the store nonchalantly, weighing them up, waiting for inspiration to strike.
12 inch oak? No, much too lightweight. Imagine Paul Hogan in the next HP film: "You call that a wand?!"
14 inch rosewood? Not bad, I'll put that aside and come back to that one.
16 inch monster in pine? Egad, if this flies out of my hand I'll have someone's eye out.
The next tube had a name papered to it with sticky tape: "Nick Cowall 04.. ... ..." Hmm.
I gave the wand a prospective twirl, and although I rated it as one of the two best, I thought better of claiming it for my own.
So in the end, I came away with the 14 inch rosewood.
12 inch oak? No, much too lightweight. Imagine Paul Hogan in the next HP film: "You call that a wand?!"
14 inch rosewood? Not bad, I'll put that aside and come back to that one.
16 inch monster in pine? Egad, if this flies out of my hand I'll have someone's eye out.
The next tube had a name papered to it with sticky tape: "Nick Cowall 04.. ... ..." Hmm.
I gave the wand a prospective twirl, and although I rated it as one of the two best, I thought better of claiming it for my own.
So in the end, I came away with the 14 inch rosewood.