I love you

If I ever wondered how I spent my time before I got my own computer, this weekend I found out. I was writing letters. On paper. By hand.

I have a beautiful, leather chest that I bought second hand at an auction twenty years ago but it is rotting away. It was repaired once but the humidity of Thailand hasn’t done it any favours. It was full of correspondence which I have been meaning to go through for years.  On Saturday I bought the contents a new home, a beautiful box, bamboo with a lacquer interior, and so finally I have emptied the chest. I threw out all the cards, *wincing* reading only a few. A brave move because I am a hoarder.

But I am saving all the words; the letters and postcards which so many people have written and sent to me at all the places I’ve ever lived and worked, I am keeping. The envelopes alone chart my life.

There were gems in my trunk (and a desiccated spider;) letters that I’d rather forget: “I was disappointed to see that at close of business today the balance of your account was…” And many that I treasure: an envelope, from my sister, full of drawings of shoes and swatches of material for my bridesmaids’ dresses. There are letters from pen pals, family, school and university friends and work mates.

And there are love letters… Oh yes; love letters.

Not. Just. From. Husband.

I spent the afternoon reading and grinning. And then feeling sad that I don’t still write letters, and my children don’t write letters.

What will happen to their love letters?

Still in the 70s

Moving swiftly on from yesterday’s contentious subject matter, I have been delving in those boxes again.

Today’s post is more from my letter writing days; the purpose of which was always to get some booty back.

As a child I didn’t watch much television (I made up for it later in life – though I’m back to ‘not much’ in Thailand – no point!) but I did watch and love the BBC children’s television. I was around ten/eleven years old when I wrote to Blue Peter (twice) and to Johnny Morris of Animal Magic fame.

This is the Blue Peter team that characterized my childhood. Looking back, I loved John Noakes for his humour; the way that he personified Shep the dog always made me laugh. And Johnny Morris’ humour too was much of the attraction although the animals were a big appeal too.

Unusually topical

Some time around 7am BST, Paul Gadd lands in Britain. Paul Francis Gadd is his real name; most of us – over a certain age - know him as Gary Glitter, the 1970s glam rocker. Since his release from a Vietnamese prison last Tuesday, where he was serving a sentence for child abuse, he has been refused entry twice to Thailand, and once to Hong Kong.

It’s 1974. I am seven years old. My parents are together; I have a brother 11 years older who barely registers on my scale, and a sister, 20 months older than I am. She is close enough in age to be my friend, but old enough for me to know my place.

My sister and her friend, Stephanie, love the Bay City Rollers, an emerging Scottish band who are soon to go stratospheric. I feel the pressure to worship but I am told the Bay City Rollers are off limits: particularly Woody.

Around this time, I begin my juvenile hobby of letter writing. (This hobby continues through my adolescence and then somewhat erratically into my twenties until the emergence of email.) My letter writing habit belongs to me. I write letters of complaint; letters to multiple pen friends, I send off for holiday brochures for pony trekking camps and activity holidays. I am rewarded with Post. My sister is envious of my post, but she can’t be bothered to make the investment of writing; perhaps she’s too in love with Woody.

Maybe I plotted. It’s possible I consciously attempted to outdo my sophisticated 9 year old sister but I wrote a letter to Gary Glitter, asking for a piece of his silver lurex jacket. At the beginning of April 1974 I received a reply; stapled to the top left of the letter was a small bolt of silver lurex material. It was a standard letter telling me how to join Gary Glitter’s fan club with a red ink PS, which reads: ‘Here is a piece of Gary’s silver lurex jacket.’

A few weeks ago, while in the UK, I was sorting through two large boxes at my parents’ house when I found it again.