I know I have mentioned this, but my Grandmother has exquisite writing. I, on the other hand, have a loopy scribble that means packages are often lost in the mail or returned to me because the postie cannot work out where it is supposed to be going. I find notes, reminders and lists lodged in my jeans, blazer pockets, handbags and even my underwear draw.
There are 17 exercise books piled up in my room, each filled approximately three quarters. Each book has wildy different writing, the penmanship is schizophrenic. While I am excellent at writing to myself, I am guilty of rarely writing to others. I email, everyday. To work colleagues, my friends, and in reply to my mothers ever constant stream of nosey questions that find there way across cyber space into my inbox. Unfortunately, they do not know my penmanship.
Today I am going to write a letter to T, my friend and blogger on this site. We have never met but we email almost daily. A stranger to me, she emailed one day asking me about some photos I had taken, I emailed her back about cameras. The emails continued, the friendship progressed. She lives in South Korea and is moving to the U.K. I live in New Zealand and am moving to Japan. I hope we meet one day.
Tonight, when I get home I am going to pull out my dusty pink rose stationary set that hasn't been used in forever and pen a letter. Because it is a nice thing to do. Because we have our friendship because of letters. Because my mailbox is filled with paper from the parking man, the bank and the insurance company. And because there is such excitement in recieving a hand written envelope in the mail.
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