Running Amock

"I think," my grandad emailed me this morning to say, "your literary licence has run somewhat amock."
"What's the point in having it I can't run amock with it?" I emailed back, a little defensively. "I like running amock with things now and then. It's very healthy. It resettles the boundaries."
"Grandma and I just aren't too sure about Dumbledore and Gandalf," grandad added confidentially, as if there had just been a tea party between the four of them and one of them had said something awkward or perhaps Dumbledore didn't wipe his shoes properly at the front door and then there had been a long silence while they all stared at the carpet crossly and then agreed never to have another tea party because they weren't that keen on each other after all.
"They're nice, grandad," I assured him. "They're supposed to be nice, anyway." I thought about it a bit more. "Obviously Gandalf is a bit full of wrath and arrogance and Dumbledore is a bit of a selfish old miser who consistently risks Harry's life for his own gain, but..."
Dammit, I thought. I didn't think that through properly at all. They might be the most famous grandad figures of all time, but they're probably not the loveliest.
"I'm sure," my grandad said, gallantly, seeing that I was suffering somewhat, "that they are very nice gentlemen and we would all get on famously."
There was a silence.
"If forced," I added, laughing a bit.
"Absolutely if forced," grandad emailed back, probably smiling. I hope, anyway.

When comparing someone you love to something - whether it's a celebrity, or a literary figure, or the guy off the telly in the background of Eastenders or a strange shape of bush in the local park - it's probably best to check first that it's not somebody or something they don't particularly like very much. It wasn't my intention to accidentally offend my grandfather on his birthday; I try to reserve involuntarily upsetting people for the other 360 days of the year (I leave off Christmas too, and Boxing Day, and sometimes - when I'm feeling kind - Easter).

The truth is, now I come to think of it, my grandad in a room with Dumbledore and Gandalf would be far more worthy of writing about than any kind of missing link between them.
"We must send Frodo off with the ring," Gandalf would say, drawing himself up to a great height and swishing his cloak a little.
"We can send Harry, too," Dumbledore would add. "He's good at all that kind of stuff. And he has a wand and a broomstick and everything."
Gandalf would frown.
"Yes, but Frodo has The Power."
"Well, Harry is The Chosen One," Dumbledore would argue back, rising up from his chair. "He's already fought all sorts of monsters. I left him to it. Him and all his other little friends, barely nine years old."
"Nine years old?" Gandalf would sniff derisively. "That's nothing! Have you seen how small Frodo and his buddies are? They're tiny! They're even smaller than children!"
"But Harry's friends are still in school uniform."
And they would step towards each other, twitching their wands threateningly.
Then there would be a cough.
"Excuse me," my grandad would say, stirring his tea, "but - seeing as they're both young and defenceless and fighting all the forces of Evil in middle and central earth is quite a big, not to mention, scary, job - don't you think it's a little unkind to send them out there with only other vulnerable little people to protect them?"
There would be a blank silence.
"Shouldn't we send someone else?" my grandad would continue calmly.
"What do you mean?" the two great wizards would ask eventually, in utter confusion.
"Well, seeing as we're the all powerful wizards and they're the kids, wouldn't it be a little nicer - not to mention more sensible - to do it ourselves?"
"But we might get hurt," Dumbledore would say. "Can't we make Harry and Frodo do it? They're both orphans anyway, right?"
And then my grandad would put his tea down a little bit crossly, and - with a bit of a sigh - walk out of the house and go and save earth while the other two wizards banged their wands on the floor at each other and challenged each other to a thumb war. At which point my grandma would come in and ask them what all the fuss was about and could they please keep it down a little because nothing required that amount of stick banging. And then she'd demand to know where my grandad had gone, tutt, put her coat on and go out to join him in fighting monsters.

My grandad is perfectly right; I stretched my literary licence too far. He is nothing at all like either Dumbledore or Gandalf, and for that I am grateful.

And I agree with him utterly. It is very silly to run amock with your imagination. It gets you into all sorts of trouble.

Just ask the wizards in my living room.