Claire Bloom, Leaving a Doll’s House

 CLAIRE BLOOM

What I remember most from those early days is the sound of Mother’s voice as she read to me from Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Little Mermaid” and “The Snow Queen.” These emotionally-wrenching tales, to which I raptly listened and to which I was powerfully drawn, instilled in me a longing to be overwhelmed by romantic passion and led me in my teens and early twenties to attempt to emulate these self-sacrificing heroines, at least on the stage. 

The sound of Mother’s voice and the radiance of those long summer afternoons are fused in my childhood memory, creating a pleasurable sensation of warmth and comfort and safety. 

From: Claire Bloom, Leaving a Doll’s House

THE WASHERWOMAN'S HEN / TVÄTTERSKANS HÖNA

THE WASHERWOMAN'S HEN
Folktale -origins unknown, Catholic Europe-  
 
The oldest crones in this land still tell that a certain washerwoman, more humble than miserable but nevertheless very poor, did nothing but pray to the Heavens for a child, since both wise women and doctors had told her that she could never have any offspring. But still she never resigned herself to accept that she was barren.
One day, she was so desperate that, en tête-à-tête with the Virgin Mary, she asked Our Lady to at least give her a hen, whom she would know to love and treat as a daughter of her own.
Nine months later, she laid a chicken egg, which she, with all her love, hatched in her bosom. The chick grew within a matter of three days, and now it was a grown hen. The unfortunate washerwoman did not tarry in accepting how things were. At least she now had some company.
It was truly a beautiful hen, with a red plumage that shifted in colours like a flame, a majestic way of walking, and a cackle like the song of a primadonna soprano. Twelve years later, when the washerwoman already felt like the proud mother of a prized if not decent hen, her daughter began to increase in size, just like some maidens have growth spurts. At the same time, she began to do really strange things, like waltzing around her mother's ankles and singing: 

"Cocorococo, cocorococo,
leave me, Mum,
to wash the clothes!"

One day that she was incessantly cackling this chant, the washerwoman gave her a dirty rag and threw it to her daughter, for the hen to leave her be in peace.
The hen caught the rag in her beak and took it as far from her mother's eyes as she could.
Then, she gave it a peck, and instantly from the rag sprouted a magnificent mansion, down whose staircase walked twelve damsels bearing dishes fit for a feast for the hen, which, of course, had become a damsel as fair and bright as the sun; one would dare to say a princess.
Thus it happened for several times, and once it came to pass by chance that the royals' eldest son was riding by en route to a fox hunt, beheld the hen and her rags, and was witness to the wonderful events that transpired afterwards. The prince was smitten with the princess and decided to make her his bride.
And thus, one day, he showed up at the washerwoman's door, and the following conversation ensued:
"Would you please sell me that hen, madame?"
"Not for all the gold in the world!" she replied.
"And how much is 'all the gold in the world'?"
"Let's say... five hundred sacks full."
"I shall give you five thousand," the Crown Prince replied.
"Then... who could refuse such an offer?" the washerwoman gave in.
And this was how the prince brought the hen to Court.
He was not that sure of what he was to do to succeed in marrying her, but at last he had an idea. One evening, the local lordship of the hen's home province hosted a grand ball at his castle. The prince tucked his "little" hen to sleep in her canopy bed and left for the dance, leaving her asleep. As soon as the door had been shut behind her, the hen pecked the rag, which she wore for a shawl, and instantly she was human and her handmaids appeared, dressing her in her very best ensemble to attend the same ball.
When the Crown Prince saw her arrive, and all eyes were upon her, he understood that right then was the time to put his strategy into action. He stormed back to the palace, upstairs into her bedchamber, and found her canopy bed full of fire-red feathers; then he took all these feathers to throw them into the fire, along with the rag. Once he was sure that there was not a single feather left and the rag had been burned as well, he went himself to bed and awaited the return of his fiancée from the ball.
When he heard her steps walking upstairs, he pretended he was asleep. She tiptoed into the bedchamber, not to wake her fiancé up, but her surprise was enormour when she saw that, in her sleeping place, there was neither magical rag nor even a single hen feather.
Right then, she felt two strong, youthful arms clasping her waist.
"And now, you shall marry me!" the elated prince startled her.
And of course so it came to be, and there was much rejoicing, especially for the washerwoman, who became one of the most illustrious ladies of the Court, and even governess to the royal children of that happy marriage.


************

TVÄTTERSKANS HÖNA
Folksaga -med ursprung i det katolska Europa-

De äldsta gummorna i det här landet berättar än om en viss tvätterska, mer ringa än eländig men utfattig trots allt, som gjorde inget annat än att be till himlen om ett barn, eftersom likaväl kloka gummor som legitimerade läkare hade sagt att hon aldrig skulle kunna välsignas med avkomma. Och trots det vägrade hon ständigt att acceptera att hon var steril.
En dag var hon så förtvivlad att hon, på tu man hand med jungfru Maria, bad Vår Fru om åtminstone en höna, som hon säkert skulle kunna älska och behandla som sin egen dotter.
Nio månader senare lade hon ett hönsägg, som hon med all sin kärlek ruvade vid sin barm. Kycklingen växte inom tre dagars lopp, och nu var den en fullvuxen höna. Den olyckliga tvätterskan tvekade inte att acceptera sin nya situation. Åtminstone hade hon nu fått sällskap.
Det var verkligen en underbar höna, med flammande röd fjäderskrud som skiftade färg liksom lågor, en majestätisk gång och ett kacklande som en primadonnas sång. Tolv år senare, när tvätterskan redan kände sig som mor till en prisbelönt om inte anständig höna, började dottern att växa mycket mer än vanligt, som mänskliga tonårstjejer gör, och samtidigt att göra något konstigt, att valsa runt mammas anklar och kackla:

Kuckeliku, kuckeliku,

får jag, mor,

tvätta kläderna nu?

En dag då hon oändligt hade kacklat så här, gav (eller snarare kastade) tvätterskan en smutsig trasmatta till din dotter, för att hönan skulle tvätta den och lämna henne ifred.

Hönan tog trasmattan i näbben och gick hemifrån, så långt bort från sin mamma som hon kunde. När hon var utanför byn, ute på landet, gav hon trasmattan en puss med näbben och trasmattan förvandlades till en magnifik herrgård, och nerför trappan kom ett dussin välklädda tjänarinnor, som dukade ett bord med en festmåltid åt den jättestora hönan, som nu var en ungmö lika ljus och vacker som solen: man kunde lika gärna säga en prinsessa.

Så hände det flera gånger, och en gång hände det att landets kronprins passerade förbi på väg till rävjakten, och han fick se hönan med trasmattan och hela den underbara förvandlingen, Kronprinsen blev kärlekskrank och bestämde sig att gifta sig med den skönheten.

Så en dag dök han upp på tvätterskans tröskel och resultatet blev följande samtal:

"Vill frun vara så hygglig att sälja mig den hönan?"

"Inte för allt guld i världen, ers höghet."

"Hur mycket är allt guld i världen, frun?"

"Jag vill säga... fem hundra säckar fulla?"

"Jag erbjuder frun fem tusen säckar..."

"Alltså... vem vågar vägra en sådan summa?" Tvätterskan gav sig.

Så tog kronprinsen med sig hönan till slottet. Han visste inte vad han skulle göra för att vinna hennes hjärta eller upphäva förtrollningen, men han hade åtminstone en aning. 

En dag bjöd greven i tvätterskans hemtrakt all adel i landet på en bal på sin borg. Prinsen nattade "sin lilla" höna i sin himmelsäng innan han åkte till balen med sin vagn, och lämnade henne sovande i sängen. Så fort som dörren hade stängts gav hönan en puss med näbben till sin trasmatta, som hon hade som sjal, och ett tu tre var hon människa igen och alla hennes tjänarinnor dök upp, och klädde henne i sin allra bästa ensemble så att hon skunde åka på bal. De skaffade också en vagn, och hon åkte till balen hos greven.

När kronprinsen såg henne dyka upp, och alla ögon var fokuserade på henne, förstod han att det var rätt tid att pröva den strategi han hade. Han stormade tillbaks till slottet och fann att hennes himmelsäng var full med eldröda fjädrar, som han tände eld på, och dessutom på trasmattan med. När han var säker att han hade bränt alla fjädrarna la han sig in sin egen himmelsäng och väntade på att "honan" skulle återvända hem från balen.

När han hörde hennes steg stiga uppför trappan låtsade han att sova, hon tippade på tå upp till sängen för att inte väcka sin fästman, men vilken överraskning när hon inte fann på sängen varken sin trasmatta eller den minsta lilla hönsfjädern.

Just då kände hon två starka, maskulina armar kring hennes midja.  

"Nu gifter du med mig!" utbrast kronprinsen.

Och så skedde det. Och det blev mycket firande, med stor pompa och ståt, speciellt för tvätterskan, som blev den finaste damen vid hovet och strax därpå även kungabarnens guvernant!

LA NIÑA QUE JUGABA A SER DIOS - DAN LUNGU

  

La niña que jugaba a ser Dios - Dan Lungu, traducción de Borja Mozo 

Esta novela es una conmovedora historia sobre la emigración en la Rumanía poscomunista. Con el fin de mejorar la comprometida situación económica de su familia, Letitia emprende un viaje a Italia en busca de trabajo, y deja en Rumanía a la pequeña Radita, su hija, quien sufre especialmente la separación de su madre. Lo que, en principio, iba a ser una solución provisional, comienza a alargarse en el tiempo y Radita se ve obligada a suplir esa ausencia con toda la fuerza de su imaginación, en un intento por comprender un entorno que no entiende. Letitia, por su parte, soporta las dificultades de su nueva vida, lejos de su familia, y centra en el trabajo todas sus energías, con la esperanza de un regreso próximo. A lo largo de la novela, madre e hija tomarán alternativamente la voz de la narración, se turnan sus puntos de vista, presentando así al lector la verdad de un fenómeno que ha marcado profundamente a la sociedad rumana poscomunista. Una historia emocionante y sorprendente, no exenta de humor, sobre la emigración y el desarraigo, y una lectura valiosa por cuanto que nos muestra una realidad con la que convivimos cada día y nos ayuda a entender mejor el desquiciado mundo que habitamos. La novela que publicó Amarillo, «La niña que jugaba a ser Dios», es una historia potente, emocionante y con un final que no deja indiferente. 

En Rumanía han quedado las dos hijas, Malina y Rădița, en una extraña situación. Malina vivirá con su padre, Vali, mientras que Rădița, la pequeña, queda al cargo de los abuelos maternos que aprovecharán la circunstancia para arreglar su casa. La narración discurre entre el día a día y la inocente visión de la realidad de Rădița, que pronto se obsesiona con la idea de planear una fuga para ver a su madre, y la dramática realidad de un entorno poblado de interesantes personajes cuyas vidas están marcadas por el interés de progresar en una sociedad poscomunista que tratan de dejar atrás. 

Por su parte, la culta y formada Letiția, criada de la familia Bosse para atender a la anciana Nonna, ve cómo el tiempo pasa y comienza a intuir, en el contacto con las durísimas experiencias de muchos rumanos en Roma y sus inmensas dificultades (fantástico el personaje de Laura, que ha sido compañera de colegio de Letiția, superviviente donde las haya), que no existe la emigración temporal. Que las familias que han quedado en Rumanía se instalan en el olvido y cada vez exigen más generando un bucle del que parece imposible salir. 

Nada sobra en esta novela por la que transitan numerosos personajes de una pequeña sociedad en la que las relaciones personales todavía son muy importantes y en las que los mayores viven en un deseado nuevo mundo sin poder olvidar completamente el antiguo a pesar de las dificultades, penurias e humillaciones que soportaron. Es el caso de Petru Cosoi, el abuelo de Rădița, que ha sido director de escuela, o del tío Miluta, profesor de matemáticas. 

Por cierto, que en una nota a la edición se alude precisamente a la conservación en el texto de “una expresión típicamente rumana, que denota la marcada dimensión rural del país. Se trata del uso de la palabra tío o tía (tío Mirón…, la tía Vinagre…) para referirse a personas mayores, que no necesariamente son los hermanos del padre o de la madre”. Algo nada sorprendente para los leoneses que han usado exactamente la misma expresión hasta mediados, y aun después, del siglo XX exactamente en el mismo contexto rural. Una curiosidad que vincula dos sociedades muy alejadas y aparentemente inconexas (salvo la lengua, claro está, dado que el rumano es, como la nuestra, neolatina).

‘La niña que jugaba a ser Dios’ (ya descubrirá el lector la razón del título), es, sin duda, una excelente obra en la que Dan Lungu ha sido capaz de presentar una realidad social que escuece, la tristeza del desarraigo que provoca la emigración y las consecuencias que genera en la sociedad, sin renunciar a la ironía y al humor. 

Se entremezcla la ingenuidad de una niña que sólo desea volver a ver a su madre. Ésta se ha marchado a Italia para encontrar trabajo y conseguir algo de dinero.

"Cuando (la niña) se hartó de repartir órdenes, se percató de que tenía las piernas dormidas. Se recostó de espaldas y fue rodando hacia el interior de la azotea hasta llegar al cartón, se dio la vuelta y por fin consiguió colocarse bocarriba. Mirar el cielo era el más peligroso de sus juegos secretos, pero le resultaba imposible renunciar a él. Y mirarlo desde lo alto de un bloque no tenía parangón: ni desde el jardín ni desde la rama de un árbol, ni siquiera desde el tejado de la leñera se veía tan despejado y sin límites. El peligro residía en que siempre olvidaba que tenía una abuela y debía regresar a casa. O peor aún: en que por mucho que fantaseara con historias de nubes o dejara simplemente volar su imaginación, siempre acababa acordándose de su nota en caligrafía y de todo lo demás".

Sin embargo, la espera se alarga… Y a la niña se le comienzan a desdibujar las facciones de su madre, su voz, su olor…

"De su madre solo le quedaba la voz. Sus manos se habían esfumado. El frufrú de su vestido y el siseo del peine al pasar por su pelo frente al espejo habían enmudecido. Tampoco olía ya a nada, ni a perfume ni a buñuelos ni a pintaúñas. A nada de nada. Parecía que se la había tragado la tierra y solo permanecía su cara reflejada en una fotografía, aunque sus rasgos habían empezado a borrarse de tanto acariciarla. A veces soñaba que su rostro era un óvalo vacío, blanco, y ella escribía en el centro con letra muy elegante, la más elegante del mundo mundial: mamá."

****************** 

En enero de 2025 Amarillo Editora publica por primera vez en castellano una de sus obras más emblemáticas: La niña que jugaba a ser Dios. En ella el autor aborda el tema de la emigración -siempre de actualidad, como algo inherente al ser humano-, en este caso en la Rumanía postcomunista. Una madre se ve obligada a viajar fuera de Rumanía para buscar trabajo y deja a su hija Radita al cuidado de su familia. La adaptación de la madre a las nuevas circunstancias, así como la situación de la niña que se ha visto obligada a separarse de su madre, nutren esta emocionante historia, no exenta de ironía.

Vendo La niña que jugaba a ser Dios de Dan Lungu. Es una novela que cuenta la historia de Letitia, una madre rumana que se va a Italia en busca de trabajo y deja a su hija Radita en casa de los abuelos. La pequeña se siente sola al principio, pero empieza a usar su imaginación para lidiar con la separación. La historia va alternando entre las voces de madre e hija y habla de la emigración y lo que significa estar lejos de casa. Es un libro que mezcla emoción y humor. Lo tengo disponible para compra y lo envío sin problema.

 En La niña que jugaba a ser Dios me ocupé de los llamados huérfanos blancos, es decir, los niños que se quedaron solos en casa, al cuidado de sus abuelos o vecinos. Su experiencia fue a menudo traumática.

Los niños son personajes importantes de sus obras, como en La niña que jugaba a ser dios. ¿Qué le ofrece la infancia en un mundo real y literario convulso: esperanza o un retrato del desastre?

DAN LUNGU: La infancia es un mundo en sí mismo, absolutamente fascinante. Ver el cielo y el asfalto, los árboles, las personas y los animales a través de los ojos de un niño es un espectáculo en sí mismo, que no necesita ninguna historia ni desenlace, es pura alegría. Maravillarse junto con ellos y vivir sus miedos al abandono desde el interior de sus emociones es una de las experiencias más humanas y profundas. 

THE BANANIA MAN (BONHOMME BANANIA)

You mean, Bananaman? "Eric is Bananaman?"

THIS Bananaman?

No siree.

This guy is FRENCH and has a far darker story (if you thought Jean Mineur was dark, you OUGHT to read THIS post!)

For starters, I have been to France but NEVER LIVED there, so I got to learn about this guy from Karambolage (just like Jean Mineur!) 

Banania is an instant cocoa drink, Nesquik's main rival. The ingredients are all of them very tropical: chocolate powder, cane sugar, and the special ingredient: banana or plantain starch (hence the name!).

The mascot was originally this Afro-Caribbean girl, quite similar to Chiquita Banana...

 

But the World Wars changed that, and she was replaced by the Banania Man, a Senegalese soldier (Senegal was a French colony at the time):

Look at that innocent yet ominous smile, "half devil and half child" to quote Rudyard Kipling. And at that uniform: the red fez because he's a Muslim, French blue jacket, and puffy white trousers perfect for the bush, a tropical environment. Instead of saying "c'est bon" in Standard European French, he says "y a bon" in his own regional dialect.

Thousands of men like him were sent to the Western Front, a completely different world, along with TRAINLOADS of Banania powder for the whole French army's breakfast (and it got eaten by bugs and rats too, of course). The Senegalese men and those from other tropical colonies (like Afro-Caribbean and Vietnamese soldiers) were used as a human shield for the European French men and put on the frontlines to be massacres during the warm seasons, the rationale being that, hailing from tropical climates, they would not survive the European winter!

No one mourns these men from across the seas. Their names never appear on those memorials for those "slain for France," crowned by Gallic roosters. Yet their memory survives, for instance, in the form of the Banania Man. Although he is pretty racist, he has been reclaimed as a symbol by the Senegalese immigrants that live within the Hexagon (European France). Like Jean Mineur, he is scary to some people but reassuring to others, even to collectors of his merchandise!

Even ARSÈNE LUPIN had a Senegalese servant that went by "Y a bon," which was most likely a nickname - yes, he has become a literary character!

The modern-day iteration of the Banania Man has less racist features...

His lips have become far thinner and his skin a little fairer, and his smile far more charming, and the "y a bon" in regional accent is gone, but he's still black and still wears the trademark Islamic fez. I'm so glad this brand does not exist in Spain and I would rather take my chances with Nesquik!

After all, there's NOTHING racist about a brown rabbit!

************************

PS! SAY GOODBYE TO UNCLE BEN AND TO CHIQUITA BANANA!

The Banania Man and the Sarotti Moor are not the only politically incorrect mascots to have been rebranded.

Uncle Ben, a staple of my childhood summers in Sweden, is now also gone forever. Requiem for a reassuring bald black guy who always reminded me of Sam L. Jackson, the Mace Windu of my childhood. The brand is now the 100 percent Uncle-free Ben's Original!

And Chiquita Banana also got axed! 

Which makes me wonder: within half a century, will the Wizarding World and Middle-Earth also be sacrificed on the altar of the Politically Correct Gods? Will Dudley Dursley (pre-dementor's kiss) no longer be "the size and weight of a young killer whale," but simply "enormous" (like Augustus Gloop or Aunt Sponge)? Will hobbits nevermore smoke pipeweed? And what about the Haradrim? It would be sacrilege to alter all of that...

THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES (WORDSWORTH)

 the kitten and the falling leaves - WORDSWORTH (Romanticism)

(Upon watching his toddler daughter Dora and her tabby kitten playing with the autumn leaves - yes, I know it's a bit ironic to post an autumn poem in springtime!)

That way look, my Infant, lo!
What a pretty baby-show!
See the kitten on the wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall,
Withered leaves—-one—-two—-and three—-
From the lofty elder-tree!
Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round they sink
Softly, slowly: one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or Faery hither tending,—-
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,
In his wavering parachute.
—-But the Kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!
First at one, and then its fellow
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now—-now one—-
Now they stop and there are none
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger-leap half way
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again:
Now she works with three or four,
Like a magic conjurer;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were her antics played in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd?
Over happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure!
     'Tis a pretty baby-treat;
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet;
Here, for neither Babe nor me,
Other play-mate can I see.
Of the countless living things,
That with stir of feet and wings
(In the sun or under shade,
Upon bough or grassy blade)
And with busy revellings,
Chirp and song, and murmurings,
Made this orchard's narrow space,
And this vale so blithe a place;
Multitudes are swept away
Never more to breathe the day:
Some are sleeping; some in bands
Travelled into distant lands;
Others slunk to moor and wood,
Far from human neighborhood;
And, among the Kinds that keep
With us closer fellowship,
With us openly abide,
All have laid their mirth aside.
     Where is he that giddy Sprite,
Blue-cap, with his colors bright,
Who was blest as bird could be,
Feeding in the apple-tree;
Made such wanton spoil and rout,
Turning blossoms inside out;
Hung—-head pointing towards the ground—-
Fluttered, perched, into a round
Bound himself, and then unbound;
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin!
Prettiest Tumbler ever seen!
Light of heart and light of limb;
What is now become of Him?
Lambs, that through the mountains went
Frisking, bleating merriment,
When the year was in its prime,
They are sobered by this time.
If you look to vale or hill,
If you listen, all is still,
Save a little neighboring rill,
That from out the rocky ground
Strikes a solitary sound.
Vainly glitter hill and plain,
And the air is calm in vain;
Vainly Morning spreads the lure
Of a sky serene and pure;
Creature none can she decoy
Into open sign of joy:
Is it that they have a fear
Of the dreary season near?
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter even than gaiety ?
     Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell
In the impenetrable cell
Of the silent heart which Nature
Furnishes to every creature;
Whatsoe'er we feel and know
Too sedate for outward show,
Such a light of gladness breaks,
Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,—-
Spreads with such a living grace
O'er my little Dora's face;
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms
Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms,
That almost I could repine
That your transports are not mine,
That I do not wholly fare
E'en as ye do, thoughtless pair!
And I will have my careless season
Spite of melancholy reason,
Will walk through life in such a way
That, when time brings on decay,
Now and then I may possess
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
—-Pleased by any random toy;
By a kitten's busy joy,
Or an infant's laughing eye
Sharing in the ecstasy;
I would fare like that or this,
Find my wisdom in my bliss;
Keep the sprightly soul awake,
And have faculties to take,
Even from things by sorrow wrought,
Matter for a jocund thought,
Spite of care, and spite of grief,
To gambol with Life's falling Leaf.

Analysis (ai): The poem depicts an infant and a kitten observing falling leaves, transforming a simple autumn scene into a meditation on joy, transience, and perception. The setting—an orchard in frosty morning light—anchors the imagery in the natural world, consistent with Romantic-era focus on rural landscapes and seasonal change (compare Andersen's tales).

Joy as Resistance: The kitten’s energetic play serves as a model of unselfconscious delight, unburdened by awareness of time or decay. This joy is not dismissed as childish but held up as an ideal the speaker aspires to reclaim, positioning spontaneous pleasure as a counterforce to adulthood's rational melancholy.

Less-Discussed Angle: Rather than reading the poem as a simple celebration of innocence, it can be seen as a subtle critique of adult consciousness: the speaker envies the kitten and infant not for purity, but for their incapacity for regret, suggesting emotional limitation as a condition of happiness.
Final Resolution: The speaker resolves not to transcend sorrow but to coexist with it, choosing to "gambol with Life's falling Leaf" despite care. This closing image reframes decline not as defeat but as a context for fleeting, valid joy—less a Romantic affirmation than a pragmatic embrace of impermanence.  

HBO - NEW WIZARDING WORLD (THIS DECEMBER)

This winter I am really looking forward to two new things: the release of Pokémon Gen 10 (a new region/counterpart culture inspired by Southeast Asia, new starters, new species, new guiri(foreign tourist)-looking Pikachu, a male and female...) but first and foremost HBO HARRY POTTER, The Series of the Books (like Game of Thrones or Lemony Snicket) instead of the Films of the Books - this being a series with hour-long episodes will add many more details that were skipped in the films (many scenes with Harry at the Dursleys' for instance) and characters and subplots that were likewise skipped (like poltergeist Peeves or Winky, the Crouches' female house-elf!) for want of space, in the films. (Not to mention the SPEW subplot)! We could also get A LOT of Marauders flashbacks - MARAUDERS FANS, REJOICE!!!). Actors have been recast and objects/products have been rebranded, we have a new Hogwarts coat of arms and new uniforms...

The new Golden Trio, canonizing now the fanon that Hermione is black - makes sense given that she is the Daenerys of the Wizarding World, freeing the slaves (house-elves) and being called ethnic slurs (mudblood).

But I can't conceive of a black Snape. He must be pale and have an aquiline nose... More Lion of Judah than Serpent of Slytherin, even more in these dreadlocks... looks like many Rastafarians I have seen at the Rototom during summers in Benicàssim!

The new Draco Malfoy has the wrong shade of blond and the wrong shape of hair, the goldilocks look makes him look like David Bisbal (and on screen he doesn't change his colour and shape of hair to straight and platinum)... 

Draco wearing the male uniform

Hermione wearing the female uniform.

You can also see that the uniform has changed. The house ties/scarves are still there, but the uniform now has, for males, a maroon waistcoat and gray trousers; for females, a green plaid dress with a ribbon in her house colours around the waist. The uniforms are far less gender-equal than in the films.

The new Hogwarts crest, with the Lion of Gryffindor and Badger of Slytherin as tenants, the Eagle of Ravenclaw on top, and the Serpent of Slytherin as an ouroboros around the initial H. Looks like a real coat of arms and moreover more inspired by the Queen crest:

I grew up with the quartered, four-coloured Hogwarts crest but I can totally see this new design on merchandise, like on a sweatshirt sold at Primark.

The packaging of the sweets also changes. Every-Flavour Beans now come in pyramidal packagings with a Jack and the Beanstalk motif, and that of Chocolate Frogs is now shaped like a six-petal waterlily. 

The Chocolate Frog packaging opens at the top, the petals unfold... and the Frogs are still made of Croakoa, and sentient, but now green (tastes like mint, I guess?) and much more realistic. Also, the famous wizard trading cards now come in hexagonal shape because the packaging is no longer pentagonal!

Moreover the new series has added scenes of Harry at the Dursleys' when his powers activate (before he learns he's a wizard: Harry's powers activate when he's stressed/bullied). For instance: Aunt Petunia gives him a bad haircut and his hair grows back at lightning speed.

L'HORA DELS ADÉUS (AULD LANG SYNE)

 L'hora dels adéus - Auld Lang Syne

In Catalonia, very popular during Scout leavetakings...

....

És l'hora dels adéus
i ens hem de dir adéu-siau!
Germans, dem-nos les mans,
senyal d'amor, senyal de pau.
El nostre comiat diu:
A reveure, si al cel plau!
I ens estrenyem ben fort
mentre diem adéu-siau.

TORNADA:
No és un adéu per sempre,
és un adéu per un instant;
el cercle refarem
I fins potser serà més gran.

La llei que ens agermana,
ens fa més forts i ens fa més grans.
Si ens fa més bons minyons,
també ens fa ser més bons humans.

TORNADA:
No és un adéu per sempre,
és un adéu per un instant;
el cercle refarem
I fins potser serà més gran.