Lost art of letter-writing gets my seal of approval

By Mike Lowson

Published:

THIS week, I faced a worrying situation that could have seen me having to sniff smelling salts, drink a couple of stiff drams and retire in shock for a long lie-down in a darkened room.

It has happened before, but there was something about the circumstances this time that gave me an even greater sense of foreboding. I wondered whether I might still be around to share my thoughts with you today, or might by now be consigned to history like the doomed commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.

It is a moot point whether top police officers should be accountable to elected politicians or only to the law they are in business to enforce. It would be dangerous if every time a new politician took office they insisted on a new set of police chiefs, too, presumably sympathetic to their political beliefs. That’s a police state.

But what happens when a chief constable behaves like a child who has been told off and so spits out their dummy in protest? Who can remove a recalcitrant copper from office if senior officers have no democratic accountability? Perhaps Sir Ian Blair and Boris Johnson should be locked in the Tower of London until they come up with a credible solution to this conundrum. In both their cases that could take a very long time, sadly.

Still, I digress. My scary dilemma this week centred round one simple question: what was in the padded envelope on my desk?

Given its size and its unexpected nature, I was suspicious of it. Should I open it or should I gingerly ease it outside and call the bomb squad to have it blown up, just in case?

The postmark was from the Press and Journal office so that was good news, and bad news. The good news was that I am sure that if the paper wants to dispense with my services it is unlikely to do it by sending me a letter bomb. The bad news was that if it came from the company, it was probably bad news. Here’s why.

One of the occupational hazards of being a columnist is facing the fury of readers when you stray from their strident opinions. If I had done everything suggested by some of the nasty e-mails I have received in recent years, I would be walking with a strange gait and could probably find work in a circus as a contortionist.

With that in mind, it was with some trepidation that I decided to open the packet. A flurry of letters tumbled out. As I read through them one by one, they warmed my heart even faster than being stuck in a lift with the UK women’s rowing team.

In today’s hectic, high-speed e-mail world, I had all but forgotten the joys of personal letters. Nothing beats receiving heartfelt words of thanks, sympathy, affection or hope when someone has taken the trouble to write them to you.

It is more than 70 years since Laszlo Biro patented the ballpoint pen and his name has become synonymous with all similar pens. His brilliant invention brought letter-writing to ordinary people who could now afford a reliable pen rather than the more cumbersome and expensive fountain pens and nibs that had gone before.

Today’s younger generation would prefer to text or e-mail, of course, but in so doing they risk never experiencing the emotion of seeing a loved-one’s handwriting on a scented envelope or receiving a long-awaited letter containing good news or, joy of joys, a cheque. Some men get a frisson of excitement on receiving a passionate love letter from a girlfriend, especially if there is a risk their wives might intercept it first.

In my pile of letters one came from a woman who said she hoped it wasn’t presumptious of her to contact me and who apologised if she offended me by writing. No fear, it was a delight to come across such courtesy in a world where folk struggle to mumble even the simplest civilities to each other.

She confessed to being 82 years old, so she proved that she comes from a generation who have much to teach us. We would do well to look, listen and learn.

In my envelope there were wonderfully touching cards, too, sympathising on the loss of my two collies.

Another note came from a former work colleague who I haven’t seen in 10 years but whose unexpected letter brightened a dreich autumn morning like a shaft of summer sunlight.

To my correspondents from Kyle, Aberdeen, Banff, Insch, Monifieth, Kirkwall and Avoch, thank you.

It was a joy, even although the next set of letters I receive will probably again be full of suggestions as to where I can stick my ballpoint pen. Ouch.

Finally, to my heroes of the week and good luck to all those arriving in Aberdeen, Dundee, St Andrews and elsewhere to begin university careers as full-time students. It is fashionable to condemn today’s young adults for getting degrees by being drunk or in bed – often both – rather than in the library or at lectures. That’s balderdash. Students should enjoy themselves just as non-students do at that age. If you don’t have fun when you are young, you could have a long miserable life in front of you.

Most students actually work their socks off to try to land a secure career when they graduate in three or four years.

It’s a brutally competitive world out there nowadays where only the fittest survive.

So to all freshers I say keep studying, keep debating, keep romancing, keep partying and keep writing home, not just when you want more cash. If you want to become men and women of letters, learn how to write them regularly. You will surprise yourself and bring untold joy to those who receive them.

E-mails are here today gone tomorrow, like drunken students. Good letters, like good graduates, are here to stay. So go on, get down to the postbox soon.

After your next party, of course.