As a society we don’t often send items by post these days, or at least I don’t, yet today I had three in my hand for the red box at the end of the lane.
As I picked these up it struck me that because I’m using stamps bought for Christmas cards, there is something very satisfying about paper and post. The six books of stamps were bought at Bedwyn post office in December and having overbought, even in June I’ve still one and a half books left. And that is a shame. I long for the days when letters would be on the doormat after returning home. The mounting excitement wondering what was inside, and after making a nice cup of tea (how did we British cope before tea) I’d sit down and receive a missive of length. Often these were accompanied by drawings, photographs and other paraphernalia. If my parents wrote, and they still do this, I’d receive half a dozen newspaper cuttings from Northumberland, letting me know some of the things which had gone on. Once I received a letter from a total stranger in South Africa. Somehow a letter from my friend Susan at University found its way south of the Equator. The kind chap returned the letter to me, except Susan had filled the envelope with the waste circles from using a paper hole punch. The returned envelope contained about a third of what had been enclosed and I’ve often wondered about the chaos that unfurled in South Africa as that guy opened the letter and was showered in confetti. I hope writing letters does not die out with the dominance of e-communication, that will be a sad day.
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