I got an e-mail from an old friend today asking for my snail mail address so she could include me in her Christmas card mailing (don’t let the irony hit you in the arse on the way out). I dutifully replied with the address and a request that she not send me a Christmas card; an e-mail would suffice. I then directed her to yesterday’s post in the hope she’d gain a better understanding of where I’m coming from.
Turns out she’s a big fan of handwritten correspondence. She disagrees completely with my views, though she points out that she’s not left handed.
As I read her message, I conjured up a vision of her sitting hunched over a rough-hewn wooden table, turkey quill in hand, busily scibbling out her holidy greetings on crisp, crinkly sheets of parchment between quick dips in the inkwell as the dim light from her oil lamp flickers warmly on the walls of her study. Outside in the street, horse-drawn carriages rumble by, their occupants dressed head to toe in their holiday best. And lo! There’s old man Cratchett strolling by with handicapable Timmy on his shoulder, a plump Christmas goose tucked safely under his free arm.
So, I’ll sit snug and warm in my little house and await the mailman’s delivery of this holiday cheer. If my friend’s got the time and money to get this production off the ground, the least I can do is read what she sends (frankly, I could do less, but that would be just plain rude). Clearly, the onus is now on me to put together the most fantabulous Christmas e-mail of all time. Put up or shut up, as they say.