For the past week I have been going to bed with another young man.

My husband, understandably, is a little jealous.

He's been sulking and moping and complaining of neglect. He's even started sanding down the bathroom floor - a job I've been nagging him to do for nine months - in an attempt to win me back.

It's not going to work, I'm afraid. At least, not until I've finished my nightly instalments of Harry Potter And The Prisoner Of Azkaban.

Yes, like many of my female friends, I've gone Harry Potty. Not since I first read The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe some 30 years ago have I been so hooked on the adventures of a 12-year-old in a magical world. It must have something to do with my hormones.

Ironically, my husband is partly to blame. He gave me the first of JK Rowling's offerings (Harry Potter And The Philosopher's Stone) for Christmas after I'd expressed a passing fancy for it.

Neither of us realised what effect the story of a small, weedy boy who turns out to have extraordinary powers would have on me. I was utterly bewitched.

I enjoyed it so much that when I finished it I was left feeling low and deflated (fellow HP addicts will understand this).

Then last week a friend kindly offered to lend me two of the sequels. Suddenly my winter brightened and Harry Potter has become my constant companion again.

I've whizzed through the Chamber Of Secrets and I'm now engrossed in Azkaban.

I read about him while I'm in the bath, on the toilet, making dinner and even during phone calls with people who do most of the talking.

Most exciting of all has been cuddling up with him in bed, which seems to be having a detrimental effect on my marriage.

"You look as if you're really enjoying that," said my husband, dolefully flicking through a car magazine just before lights out the other night.

"Mmm . . . what? Oh yeah," I said, not looking up from the page.

"That's nice," he said. "Did you notice I sanded another floorboard today?"

"Mmm."

"Aren't you pleased, then? I thought you might have said something."

"Yes, I am," I said. "But can't this wait? Harry's being attacked by a rogue bludger in Quidditch and it looks like the Slytherins are the culprits."

My husband went to say something else, but then stopped and muttered something inaudible instead. I think it involved the word "bludger".

To cure the jealousy, I've tried to encourage my husband to befriend Harry too. If millions all over the world adore the Potter boy, then I don't see why my husband couldn't find a small place in his heart for him.

Sadly, he's just not interested.

"I get my fantasy kicks from science fiction novels," he says.

"Ah," I say. "But this is more than fantasy. It's about reality and childhood. It's witty and allegorical. It says a lot about society."

"Such as?" he inquires.

"Such as . . . err . . . hang on, let me just finish this chapter and I'll tell you."

He's still waiting.