It was a reply to a mail I sent last year. It reached me last week.
Of course, the writer of the mail took several months to complete her rant, but she made it worth the wait.
S is my only 'postal' correspondent.
We chat almost every day, mail each other on the days we don't, or at least exchange a few text messages. Yet, we have managed to write letters as well.
Ok, I just read the lines above, and it may sound weird. Let's just say we have lots to gossip about, are rather highly opinionated and think we deserve to be heard... that should explain why we correspond so much.
Anyways, last week I landed grumpy at work, to be greeted by this fat brown cover on my table, with a familiar handwriting on it. The cover was so bulky, I actually thought it could be a book or a scarf... It was something for more interesting. Over a dozen pages of rant. It took me more than one read to decipher the whole letter, for obviously S is no longer comfy putting pen on paper... her handwriting has always been 'horrible' to put it politely. Now it has taken a turn to the worse.
Still, no other gift, absolutely none, would have made me this happy.
I have small briefcase full of letters and cards, when it was still in fashion to use paper and pen.
I love receiving post... And mourn rather often of the dying art of letter-writing!
And I am just so glad, even if it is once a year (or two), there is someone who thinks it's cool to WRITE to me.