Tuesday, September 1, 2026

It came in the mail

 I want to write this in French - but I will refrain, but this would sound better in French. Most things sound better in French. 

Tonight, coming home from work, I checked the letterbox. I'm used to checking it and finding nothing but the odd political flyer or piece of junk mail. 

Today, there was a letter, addressed to me, in my handwriting, sent from France. 

I wrote this to myself at Bistro des Lettres in Paris last year. 

This bistro on the leafy Boulevard Saint Germain in the Fifth Arondisement not only has excellent food, bit it's a place where you can write a letter, to whomever you choose, and the bistro will send it on. You place the letter in a box when you want it sent, and they will send it on for you. 

I wrote a letter to myself. 

In French (because I can). 

I asked for it to be sent in August of the following year. It arrived today. 


I had no recollection of what I wrote. I remember sitting in the cafe. I remember that I was sick with the starts of a nasty cold. I remember having steak tartare and a very good creme brulee. 

Also, I remember writing the letter and putting it in the August 2026 box.

And today it arrived. In French. Wishing me a happy birthday, and that I wasn't forgotten. It hoped I was happy and gainfully employed again (as I was technically between jobs when I wrote this. 

I also like how this was signed off. 

"Take this holiday. Say I love you all the time. Do your exercise. Love your life. Do all this, because you are the best. You deserve the world. Take the world in your hands. I love you. Me xx"

It sounded better in French. 

Most things do. 

But I'm chuffed with this. 

Today's song:




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