Bah, humbug: cards part II

As you all know, I love writing Christmas cards and was therefore ecstatic when I was handed a list of 20-odd two-year-olds at M's nursery, who all apparently expected them. Needless to say, none will be forthcoming as (a) I've run out of Christmas cards and (b) I really will lose the will to live. At the risk of sounding 97, what is the world coming to?

House of cards

There's a sense of menace hanging over the household at the moment...yes, the annual Christmas card list needs to be written.

And then cards sent. Lost addresses found. A small sackful of gold given to the Royal Mail so they can promptly lose everything somewhere in a postbox near Abingdon. Just call me Scrooge - I hate the whole tedious process.

For a start I can't actually write with a pen any more - I've spent far too long either writing shorthand or using a computer that my handwriting has degenerated into some sort of illegible spider scrawl, as I can't write fast enough to keep up with what I'm thinking. I suppose I could type stuff out, but then that turns into a round robin, and I'm not going to give Simon Hoggart any more free material for books.

Grrr. I could send e-cards, but they're no use if, like most of my recipients, you're not on email. And they're a bit tacky anyway (the cards, not the elderly relatives).

And you want to know the worst bit? I really really love getting mail of any sort, including Christmas cards. I'm a complete hypocrite - the arrival of the postman is the highlight of my day, and if I actually bothered to put pen to paper more often than the once-a-year-forced-exercise above I'd certainly get far more letters. I've only myself to blame.