CHAPTER THREE
Uncle Vernon didn’t go to work that day. He stayed at home and
nailed up the mail slot.
“See,” he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails,
“if they can’t deliver them they’ll just give up.”
“I’m not sure that’ll work, Vernon.”
“Oh, these peoples minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they’re
not like you and me,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail
with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.
On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As they
couldn’t go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the
door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the
small window in the downstairs bathroom.
Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters,
he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around
the front and back doors so no one could go out. He hummed
“Tiptoe Through the Tulips” as he worked, and jumped at small
noises.
On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters
to Harry found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden in-
side each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman
had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window. While
Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and
the dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia
shredded the letters in her food processor.
“Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?” Dudley asked
Harry in amazement.
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