These days I barely know what my own handwriting looks like; about my friends, the knowledge is all but lost. Seeing their pen strokes has grown rare. But for a brief period each winter that odd intimacy returns as Christmas cards – some with messages, most with just a scribbled name – land on my mat.

I adore receiving cards. Even ones from people I cordially dislike, or frankly loathe, are welcome

There used to be something exciting about the sound of the postman’s footsteps, of letters being pushed through the door, of their thump as they landed within. That was in the days when there was a great deal of post. Even then unexpected letters from old friends arrived rarely, and, strange to say, the endowment begging me to write full time never arrived at all. But back when the arrival of

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