I recently found this ancient pad of letter writing paper, faded and partially used, and just touching it brought on a plethora of memories.

Hardly anyone writes letters anymore, so they don’t know the exquisite tactile pleasure of heavy ridged paper, with uneven deckled edges, to be taken out of the pad carefully, corner by corner. I used to love writing letters to anyone who expressed the slightest interest in receiving one. People I knew, people I didn’t know- pen pals as they were called- and people I had just met at the bus stop. (Just the one actually, but I was about 15 and she was ancient – possibly about fifty, when I think about it now. We were waiting for a bus to Oxford from a little village called Benson where my aunt used to live. The wait was very long, the day was hot, and we got…