Day 30 #100DaysOfOldDays

If there’s one thing I feel that children of the digital age have really missed out on; it’s the practice of writing letters to friends and pen pals. Paper and ink letters! Some kids do I’m sure, but it’s uncommon. It was lovely to see Little Miss Ten and her friends giving it a go during lockdown

Today, we can communicate with people all over the world, video chat and all that. It’s great, yes it is, but it’s absolutely not the same thing as handwriting a letter. Some people might disagree with me—like my husband who hates writing—but I rank letter writing way above texting or phoning someone.

I came across a bag of my old letters this morning. I spent a couple of hours looking through them. Laughing at some, as they brought back memories of fun times. No way would you ever get the same pleasure from scrolling through a friend’s social media posts, or the WhatsApp group.

A letter was personal. It was written just for you. While a social media post can bring back memories, it wasn’t written especially for you.

The first letter I wrote was in 1978. I was going on eleven. I said to my Dad, I want to write a letter to someone. Who can I write to? He told me to write to my cousin Louise who lived in England. We were the same age and he figured we’d have lots to write about. He was right about that. We got to know each other through our letters, and became close friends and faithful cousins because of it.

Many of the letters from Louise came from Bahrain when she was a cabin crew member for Gulf Air. A lot of the time her letters were written on hotel room writing paper.

Then she worked for British Airways and travelled the world. She had so many adventures that she shared with me in her letters. I envied her life. But I loved her more than I envied her. Still do!  

Alas, the letters dwindled as technology took over until eventually we wrote no more. Nowadays we communicate via WhatsApp and Facebook. All of which has many advantages too—I’m not complaining!

I have letters here from pen pals from Singapore, New Zealand, Wisconsin, UK, Scotland, Donegal and Belfast.  All very polite and innocent, filled with news of school and holiday adventures.

I’ve letters from friends who had lived abroad at the time, some who still do.

Reading through some of these letters has given me such a laugh, and heart-warming memories. They’re filled with all sorts of fun and devilment. Because we knew each other inside out, our writing knew no filters.

Without mentioning any names.

One particular friend wrote me all about her bad day and the job interview she HAD to get to.

It was 1989 and as she was getting ready to go for her interview, she realised that her new tights were not tights at all; they were stockings. Now an Irish girl from the country who had just arrived in London had yet to build up the courage to go shopping for lingerie. It was a rare thing for a lass from rural Ireland to own a pair of suspender belts back then. But she always carried safety pins!

She had no choice but to pin the stockings to her undies.

As she walked to the train station, her undies kept falling down and she had to keep pulling them up.

At the train station there was no one selling tickets and she got more stressed. She decided to risk getting on the train without a ticket and hoped the inspector wouldn’t catch her. She had a job interview to attend!

As she was getting onto the train, her shoe came off and fell onto the tracks, so she had to jump off again. When the train pulled away she jumped down to retrieve her shoe, praying that as she bent down, no one would notice the stockings pinned to her underwear. Needless to say she didn’t make the interview. But she got to go to an Elton John concert in Wembley and I was very jealous!

Another friend wrote that she heard Bridie had a new fella. She had only one question—“Does he have a car?”      

One friend didn’t date her letter, but she did put, ‘Tuesday evening at 7.00 O’Clock.’

After four lines she wrote, ‘I’m finishing for a minute because Eastenders has just started.’

Then she comes back with, ‘Well, I didn’t think much of that.’

Then there’s the friend who told me in secret that she had moved into a flat with her boyfriend. I wasn’t to dare tell anyone. That was in 1985 and living with your boyfriend was frowned upon. (It might even have been a sin.)

Another friend wrote as she sat in hospital waiting on her maternity check-up. I got told about the urine sample she was about to give, and the blood sample. Buying the very basics for the baby, a Moses basket for it to sleep in, and the price of a brand new buggy in Mothercare—£129.

How times have changed!  

£100 per week to rent a flat in London, but they got one cheaper and nicer for £60.

Bought a peach suede puffball skirt (with studs in it) and a jacket to match for a wedding. All for £21.

Boyfriend is buying me a gold bracelet and taking me to a posh restaurant for my birthday (but he doesn’t know it yet)

One friend—the one who was crazy—told me she was joining the Police. Well that didn’t happen!

My friend in New York wrote about all the people from home who she met up with. Her job as a waitress, her boss who was fond of the drink, and his nosey wife who asked questions a feckin Guard wouldn’t ask ya. She lives in a three-bedroom apartment with eight other people. Bodies everywhere, she said.

The crazy friend who thought she’d get into the Police fell down the stairs at a house party and was in agony for days afterwards, but thought it was great craic altogether. And she met two old school friends in a pub in Ealing and they were wearing their wellies.

‘Remember the time we drank the poitín,’ she reminded me. Then she wrote, ‘If you see Sister Patricia, tell her I was asking for her.’ No doubt Sister Patricia missed her so much and cried her eyes out when she left town. Mmm…..