When I was at uni, every so often, I’d ring my mum and once we’d got the tiresome “How are you?” bit out of the way, I’d demand she sent me my warm jumper or my mittens or such like in a parcel. In those days, the royal mail was cheap, efficient, but brutal, so the parcel normally arrived mummified in brown tape to prevent the escape of its contents.
I thought that as the mother of new undergraduates I would be sending an assortment of similarly over-wrapped parcels through the post, but times have changed. Thirty years ago, “stuff” cost more than postage. Nowadays, however, for the price of posting a small second class parcel, one could buy an entire new wardrobe.
But this week I finally found myself trekking twice to the special post box nearly a mile away which has a nice wide mouth. Perran needed his proper dance gear for a competition on Saturday, and I also posted Carenza a pair of woolly tights to make her smile.
Of course, I was expecting conventional thank you notes to arrive by post through our own letter box, but what did I get in return? Just two texts:-
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