Post cards, letters, inscriptions in books... by people I will never know. Recently I bought a second hand copy of Don't Try This At Home, subtitled Culinary Catastrophes from the World's Greatest Cooks and Chefs.
On the flyleaf it has this inscription:
Dear Lawrence
Happy Christmas
xxx Love Me xxx
(with many hand-drawn hearts)
Surely, if Lawrence felt the same way about Me, he'd have treasured the book - it's a beautiful hardcover, with thick cellophane over the paper cover. The book is so pristine in fact, I fear I am the only reader.
That Lawrence.
I found two old postcards today at the boot sale. They are mysterious and touching. Written 98 years ago by C, to an undisclosed sweetheart. The copperplate fades and darkens, as the nib gets dipped into the ink.
The first, dated 14/9/14:
Does your heart beat true to me dear
You have not answered yet
But by a smile on your face dear
My answer I shall get,
C x
The second, almost a month later, simply reads:
Lots of Love dear
to you
C. x
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