Monday, 26 October 2015


In an era  of social media and the Internet, I still hold the joy of receiving a letter, very close to my heart. An adrenaline rush that was cultivated when I spent day after day, for months following my matron around my dormitory  waiting for her to call out my name as she handed out a bunch of white envelopes with a few bent corners and a handwritten address. My mum was the sweetest, writing me a letter as often as she could. 
Then came the concept of emails. Spending a very precious few minutes of my "computer lab" class every week to write a considerably long message with a list of things that happened over the week and an even longer list of all things I wanted my mother to send me via courier. The number of emails rose and the number of letters fell but I still waited around for that occasional letter.
I grew accustomed to not hearing my own name called out but the small pile of letters and parcels still brought me just as much joy. I stopped following my matron around as much but I waited and watched as she distributed the letters to equally excited girls. For me, it was an art that I truly appreciated. An art that was lost to most of the world and yet important to me.
Even now, living in the same house as my mother and having no need to wait for letters, I  still run to our postbox looking for any mail.  Our little metal box in our apartments basement where the only envelopes to be found are usually bills or bank statements. But I still run and have a peek. Happiness rushes through my veins as I wriggle my stubby fingers into the narrow slit of the box, struggling to pull out that lone white envelope. Something about those white envelopes make me so happy. My mother probably thinks I'm crazy and I may actually be, but I love my little post box in the dingy, dark corner of my basement.


The thud of rain hitting the red terracotta roof, trickling down the crevices of each red tile and the soft thulp as the rain disrupts the...