(Not zee, nor zed for that matter.)

I read an article today, the theme of which was inspired by the fact that the Danish Government have decreed that at the end of December it will cease to deliver letters. Parcels are fine letters no more.

CEASE TO DELIVER LETTERS!

Pardon my capital letters on the subject of no more letters, but to quote Emily Dickinson

‘What the actual fuckadoodle doo through a rolling doughnut?!‘

Bills shmills, pamphlets a relief to be done with…letters though…what of the love letter? The letters found wrapped in eau de dust and lace in a shoebox in some forgotten attic, envelopes emblazoned with the stamps from far-off lands? Angry letters of complaint, begging letters of despair, humorous retorts, postcards? POSTCARDS stomps about angrily

They say tis defunct this means of communication on paper; well that is certainly so if you take away the means to send them. What next, no shoes? No eyeballs? Where will it all end? Will people have to go and check holes in trees for vellum inked communication upon their most secret hopes and desires to later secrete behind a loose polystyrene ceiling tile?

The original article for those interested – Readers tell us how they would use their last chance to send a letter.

It asks what would people’s last letter look like and who would it be to if they knew it would be the last ever one written and sent by post. There are many replies, all poignant to some extent, well and good in their own way, but this one I like the very mostest. It is by Dipak, 66, civil servant, London and goes as follows…

A Letter to no one in particular

I fell in love more times than I can count – with people, with places, with moments that didn’t make sense until they were gone. I got things wrong. I took things too seriously, then not seriously enough. I laughed far too loudly in quiet rooms, and cried on the tube. I lived. Which is harder than it sounds. And now, in the spirit of Rabindranath Tagore, who once wrote to the people of the future while shackled by empire: I write not from oppression, but from observation.

From the quiet knowing that life is brief and beautifully absurd. If this somehow finds you long after I’m gone, I hope your world is softer. And I hope you, too, are choosing your life over the one prescribed to you. So here it is: I was here. I tried. I felt everything. And I left behind a whisper, just in case someone was listening. Thank God I read Trump’s obituary before I perished.

P.S. If you’re reading this in 2125, I am certain the District Line still has signal failures, and leaves on the track damage steel wheels…

Marvellous isn’t it?

So I have a proposal my lovelies — write the letter you would compose were it your last ever shot at it. Pop said missive in an envelope, slap a stamp on and post away in an outdoor postbox. If, for whatever reason, said letter cannot be sent due to that person not being on this plane at present/lack of address/restraining order, still write it. Write to your dad, your best mate, write to the greengrocer, the neighbour’s dog, write to that bully at school, write to the King, write to the manufacturer of the underpants you find comfiest, write to yourself when you were five, yourself when you shall be 91, the you in the next dimension where you are a skywriter for a living and did actually marry Barry with the chubby cheeks from Scunthorpe, but do write. Once written upon paper it is out in the actual real world. It exists in 3D, it can be found by archaeologists, and even if lost still exists somewhere, unlike digital text, which in comparison is perilously flimsy. If, as mentioned, the letter cannot be sent re the actual post, put it through a crack in the floorboards, in a biscuit tin to be buried in the garden, leave on a bench outside Wilco’s, tie to a stone and lob it into the river, slip it into a hole in a tree even!

There’s just the one caveat…it must be joyful, it must be radiant, it must be filled with glory, or gratitude, prideful or giddily sinful. No tears, only beaming teeth and glittering hearts.

Do it.

You know you want to.

Happy New Year m’dears!