In this modern age we expect and want everything right now. Not after your suntan has faded, slightly gnarled through the postbox, from a trip that you took over two months ago. The rising cost of stamps, too slow snail mail and instant digital information are all affecting these little cards lives.
Thirteen years ago today my mum died. It all feels like a lifetime ago, and actually I can't really remember what life looked and felt like with her in it. I wish I had been given the chance to get to know her, to appreciate her and, of course, I would do anything to thank her for all the things I can now see she did for me and my sister, and all the little ways in which she showed us that she loved us.
It's Glastonbury weekend, and I spot one of those online quizzes: What Sort of Festival-Goer Are You? The sort who doesn't go to Festivals, I think, as I turn on the TV. It's Wimbledon fortnight too, which, here in Northern Ireland, means the end of the school year, with children, teenagers and exhausted teachers rejoicing or collapsing in a heap.
There's something about paper. Not the crisp-sheet-of-A4-fresh-from-the-printer kind of paper, but the slightly crumpled, much-read kind that carries precious words or a faded picture of someone no longer part of our lives, but who once meant everything. The kind of paper that dreams and memories and even history are made of.