The 427th Quidditch world cup final

My eyes flew open. The bright white pierced my pupils, stabbing tiny pinpricks of light into my eyes. I didn’t care. Today is the day; the day of the Quidditch world cup final. Excitement tore through me like a racing car around a track. My palms were sweating and my only thoughts were of Quidditch. I thundered downstairs like a herd of elephants, excitement stealing all elements of self-control I may have had. Bacon was frying on the stove, its fragrant odour reached my nostrils and I inhaled the god like sent. I pulled the worn chair from the table and sat down with an ominous creek. I placed the bacon in my mouth and my taste buds exploded. The salty sweet taste erupted – it was heaven. I continued my divine breakfast, worshipping each mouthful as though the Holy Spirit was contained within. I finished my glorious breakfast and raced back upstairs, my state of euphoria returning after my brief period of composure. I brushed my teeth in a matter of seconds, the cool minty taste washing away any lingering tastes of bacon, then rinsed out my mouth where the icy water created a small inferno in my mouth. My breath coming out in small puffs of steam like a fluffy clouds on a summer’s day, I raced into my room (though admittedly at a slightly slower pace). Pulling my dark red sweater over my head I was soon dressed. The jumper, though itchy, showed my adoring support for Bulgaria. Back downstairs in record time I threw open the front door and stepped out into the morning. My Father trailed behind, at a slightly slower pace, laden down with bags; I raced on in front the grass glistening and each individual drop of dew shining in the sunlight like stars in the night sky.

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