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When did you last send a postcard? Go on, have a think. I’m not going to allow any sent digitally, or via one of those websites that does it all for you. I mean a proper postcard on which you’ve scribbled a message, then remortgaged for a stamp and, nine or 10 days later, remembered to pop into a post box.
Not very recently, probably. A new survey has revealed that only one in four of us send a single postcard every year, and half of all Britons have never sent one. Actually, I read that first statistic and was quite impressed. Nearly a quarter of us are still sending postcards? Blimey. That’s quite something considering the advancements in technology in addition to the monstrous price of stamps. I’ve taken to braving the queue in the post office whenever I need one, buying stamps individually, because a single first-class stamp is now £1.80, which means a book of six is over a tenner. A book of eight? Are you mad? I’m not made of money.
Reading that survey made me come over all nostalgic, because in my cellar sits a big box of postcards. I hadn’t looked at this box for years but, this week, as a result of learning that postcards are almost historical artefacts, I risked the spiders and heaved it out. Hundreds and hundreds of postcards. Some from me, some to me, because when my beloved grandmother Ann died, it transpired that she’d kept every single letter and postcard her grandchildren had ever sent.
The earliest are written in childish, round letters, and are nice and short. “To Granny. How are you? Today we had crab for lunch! Love from Sophia xox” says one sent when I was around nine, from a holiday on the west coast of Ireland. “Dear Granny, get well soon. We had a great time in Spain. I learned to dive! I love you lots and lots and lots. Bye. Love from Sophia,” says another. Crab in Ireland and diving in Spain. My childhood seems to have been non-stop pleasure, and I believe you’ll all agree that such informative and descriptive pieces of writing deserved to be kept.
The postcards become more longer and slightly more informative, if not actually gripping. “I was very impressed at the bishop getting my name right!” I wrote pompously on a postcard with an owl on the front of it, following my confirmation aged 14. A touch of Adrian Mole, there. “Dear Granny, in Luang Prabang which is beautiful,” I update her from Laos, during my gap year. “We rode bicycles today and go to the waterfalls tomorrow.” Oddly, I neglect to mention that we were off to the waterfalls with two dissolute Canadian chaps that my friend Sarah and I had recently met on our travels.
My grandmother writes back regarding the latest play she’s seen and educating me about paintings. At one stage, the postcard is of two hounds by George Stubbs. “Probably the greatest painter of animals that this country has ever had,” she writes, the word “greatest” underlined for emphasis. Another postcard is a portrait of Catherine Parr – “one of your ancestors in the 16th century,” she explains. So, to be fair, the pomposity seems to have flown in both directions.
Other postcards in this box are from my dad and stepmother, sent while I was at boarding school (my mother was also a keen writer, but letters instead of postcards). Some come with just a heart and a few kisses to let me know they were thinking of me; some with a few sentences scribbled on the back. “I am only one hour away from the Holy Mosque of Mecca where the Prophet Mohammed died and went to heaven,” Dad explains in one, during a business trip to Jeddah. Sweetly, he’s added the word “church” in small brackets after the word “mosque” so that I understood, a note that might have caused some at the Muslim Council of Britain to raise their eyebrows.
Some post cards are innocuous, featuring famous works of art, winged horses, dogs, cakes, and a jar of jelly beans. Others, as I got older, got cheekier. Naked statues, naked male bottoms and so on. My stepmother, in particular, delighted in annoying my housemistress by sending rude postcards, since our post was put on display in the hallway for us to collect each morning.
These are not, clearly, great documents of historical importance to anyone but me and my family, and, as touched upon, they’re mostly made up of immensely humdrum observations about school and exams, the weather and what someone ate for lunch. But that is the tapestry of life, is it not? Life has thrilling and less thrilling moments, and in between, we potter along remarking on the weather and what we got up to at the weekend.
That’s why I love them. They’re snapshots of moments, like a photo, and yet more evocative, because while they may be dull, they map out a life, or many lives. Over time, the handwriting changes, as do the addresses, and little observations creep in, warning of things to come. In one to my grandmother, I tell her I’m sorry about her medical results and then, of course, eventually the postcards stop.
They’re also full of love. Notably full of love. Expressions of love, biro drawings of little hearts, or a string of kisses at the end. You can do the same on a keyboard, hold the “x” key down on your laptop or phone to denote your level of affection for the recipient, but it doesn’t feel quite the same as an inky line of kisses scribbled with pen 30 years ago. I can’t imagine that we’ll be leafing through emails with the same fondness in 30 years, either. So, send one. Save the postcard. If you’re on holiday this summer, scribble something on the back and post it to someone you love. You may just have to forgo dinner for the stamp.
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