The art of post: a lament

It has been a long time coming, and finally the day has arrived: the postman brought me no cards for my birthday. Not a one. (That doesn’t mean that I’ve been left without treats – mum delivered her present in advance, card and all.  Nothing came in the post is all I’m saying.)

This was to be expected: no one sends cards these days anyway. It’s all email and text messages. I might get a phone call from aged relatives. I never remember to send cards when people have birthdays. I try to remember to send them occasionally for no particular reason, to make up for all the almost-forgot late night texts but, to be honest, most of the time I don’t.

I love getting post. Letters, postcards, parcels, I love it all – even if it’s something off the internet that I paid for myself, I still get excited. I have old relatives who used to work in post offices (remember those? they didn’t used to sell sweets but there used to be a post bank where, of course, I had an account) and pick the nicest stamps. I’ve kept pretty much every card and letter I ever received. Even at work I rush to the door eagerly when I hear that familiar thump and click of the post being dropped and the flap closing.

And so I’m a little sad that there were no cards, and resolved to send more myself.


Howl at the moon

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