WhatYouWill

So, we decided that we really must start clearing out all the old boxes in the garage. At present they are stored in a huge Edwardian mahogany wardrobe that we had in our previous house, but which did not fit into this one. Into the garage it went, 'just in case someone may want it later' ... 12 years later we have decided that we need the garage space more! Over those years it has filled up with box upon box. Mine, his, and the girl's.

It was just like Christmas! Box down, open the flap. Wham Posters? That must be Louise's. Saxaphone music - Elizabeth's. Crockery - old stuff of ours that we kept 'just in case'.

And then I hit gold. My boxes! Essays from university (did I really write those?!), english crit essays from A levels, Needlework folder from O levels (darning, anyone?), and finally exercise books from the early 1970's. What a trip down memory lane.

It got better. A whole plastic bag full of my earliest photographic attempts. I knew I was missing large chunks of these. Eagerly I took them indoors, and promptly lost 2 hours going through them. They brought back so many memories, and Mike and Ellie could not believe some of the sights they were seeing (Grandad with a beard was a particular favourite).

But worryingly, there were loads of people in them that I could not for the life of me put names to. They obviously were good friends at the time, but at most for some of them I could dredge up a first name, and some of them left me thinking 'who the heck was that'. I was left feeling that I must have sleep-walked through certain periods of my life! David often says to me 'Do you remember the time ....' and my answer is invariably 'No'.

My next find helped me out - a bit. Another plastic bag, this time full of letters. Remember them? Paper, pen, an envelope and a stamp. It seems that for a certain period of time I and my friends were prolific letter writers. During this time I lived in France, Switzerland, Surrey and Hull. As I opened each letter their addresses brought back strong memories of place. And as I read through them names cropped up that I could put to faces. It was weird. The tone and content of each letter was so personal, showed that the writer and I had shared experiences that led to friendships. And yet, I am in touch with none of them now. I still can't remember surnames. But reading them again I remember the feeling of anticipation when I was far from home and one of them arrived on the door mat. Pre-mobile, pre internet it was the only way to communicate regularly and cheaply. I so enjoyed receiving them, and writing back.

It is ironic that as communication has become simpler, we seem to do less of it.