It doesn't seem so long ago
that I received at least three
personal letters a week from the postman
who drove down my muddy, rutty lane.
I had boxes of them, with carbon copies
of my replies. I typed all my letters because
handwriting has been a problem for me
ever since I was forced to use my right hand,
and consequently (in those days of metal nibs
dipped into ink) dropped blots amongst
my spidery, uneven script.
Then came ball-point pens, which teachers
and other cultural snobs resisted.
The great thing about e-mail is that I can choose
the font and size (Bookman Old Style 16 point),
add pictures as attachments
or within the text. But my desk is still covered
with scrappy little notes I sometimes cannot read
because my writing never improved after the age of eight
when I was quite inappropriately
sent to a snobby school where I too often had to do
text-copying (with fountain-pen) as punishment.