Write back at you

I know I’ve said before that this blogging lark is more for me than it is for you (though I hope that’s not a selfish statement).  Having come home stroppy two nights in a row, part of what made the difference yesterday was sitting and writing, and having a chance to calm down.

But then, when people do comment, it makes it all the more worthwhile – particularly where I learn more about them, or their thoughts on life as a result.  Last time I restarted the blog, I had comments from male friends – maybe not so surprising given that it’s still more the men than the women who blog.

This time, great to hear from female friends straight off – so perhaps I can encourage some of them towards their own blog writing?  Many have really interesting thoughts to share.

One of the other things I’ve enjoyed for myself, and am now trying to spread a little further, is the art of sending parcels. When I lived in Poland the first time, I was working in a school for the blind, and my mum learned that you could send up to a kilo of parcel for free (in most post offices) if it was marked ‘for the services of the blind’.

She must have kept the local post office very busy, anyway, because I got some great parcels!  And the kids I worked with got benefits too from sheet music and other things she sent over which I could use in teaching.

I’ve been reminded of it when sending parcels to friends in Italy.  Being both frugal and enjoying a spot of tesselation (that’s cramming multiple items into boxes to you), I’m having fun seeing how much can be fitted into the standard boxes you can buy from the post office.

Book reviews torn out of the weekend newspapers make great padding for smaller items, I’ve discovered, and I have a suspicion that squashy bags of ground coffee might work well too. (Coals to Newcastle, I’m sure, sending coffee to Italy, but it’s part of a particular theme for that parcel.)

The memorable parcels were ones we used to get on holiday on the Isle of Jura.  It tending to be somewhat wet in the west, shall we say, relatives who knew we were going on holiday would put together parcels, knowing that there would be a wet day (or more) AND that the books we had taken with us would run out at some point.  Getting a parcel part way through, with new books, but perhaps also sweeties or a game…great excitement.

The ultimate parcel? A sofa bed, which was in the cottage on Jura for many years.  One time, those staying in the cottage were told by the postmaster that there was a ‘parcel’ for them at the pier…the sofa bed had been delivered and was waiting to be collected.  It was known forever more as ‘the parcel’, which allowed you to have somewhat opaque conversations with nearest and dearest about the relative merits of ‘sleeping on the parcel’.