letters

Back in 2010, I would never have predicted that when my friend, Brian Greenley, was diagnosed with bowel cancer, the letters that I offered to write to him would change both our lives... The letters began and over the next two years, as Brian's cancer developed to stage four, I kept on writing.
I promise to do my best to eat well, however little I may want to. I will adhere to the practical insights of chemo survivors. Above all I will keep warm. Peripheral neuropathy, in which the nerves at the extremities of the body, fingers and toes, are attacked is very common with my type of chemo, oxaliplatin
bmm banner.jpg The gratitude that the writing and reading of my letter evoked in me 10 years ago remains. When I recall that day, as I often do, I bathe again in the memory of being a 'wonderful son' to a wonderful father.
Poor Santa has his work cut out for him this year if these requests are anything to go by. After emptying their Christmas
Hey! This is me, or rather it's you, writing from the future. I have now reached my fortieth year and have decided to mark this event by looking back through my life and offering some thoughts on what I have learned.
Yes, I'm aware that you won't listen, you want to be confident, educated and independent. I am not asking you to corrupt your dreams, just to look around and find time to enjoy the journey.
The arrival of the postman with the latest instalment of news from a pen pal or a favourite aunt evokes childhood memories for those of us who grew up before the era of text messages and emails. Although the postman mainly delivers junk mail now - even bills have gone online - I'm glad to report that the art of letter writing is still alive.
I am not going to tell you what to do, how to grieve. I cannot do those things, because while we may share a similar experience in common our individual journeys are so very personal. I felt so alone after my son died, and I hope this letter offers even a tiny bit of comfort to you.
When Yael Biran broke her elbow, she was gobsmacked by the service she received in an NHS hospital. She decided to write
I thought it fitting that there's no time like the present to knuckle down and join the writers out there writing to their former selves. Not in a 'Clare, Clare, can you hear me?' way, but a reflective, reactive, and 'actually, you can learn a lot in 11 years' revelation that only comes with historical hindsight, and I hope is something others can relate to.