I used to write letters: long, drunken swirling narratives. And I kept a copy of them. Not necessarily every one, but a lot of them.
I have been meaning to match some letters describing trips I have been on – India, Borneo, New York – with pictures taken on those trips. It is actually why
I started this journal, more than three years ago.
This morning, I started to sort through these old letter. There are 188, spanning eighteen years. A little over ten a year – not that productive, then. But perhaps thousands of pages.
They are full of adolescent ramblings (long after adolescence): girls, parties, gigs; girls, mostly.
I didn’t read them – well, I glanced at a couple; I was simply trying to put them in date order.
Then I got curious: I wanted to work out who I had written too. It was quite surprising.
Off those 188, I can’t tell who 28 of them were written for: they don’t start “Dear…” Of the remaining 160, I can have letters to 39 people: 30 women and nine men. Eighty per cent of those 160 letters are to 18 people. I wrote to D, my friend in New York, eighteen times; my brother, 16 times (whilst he was working abroad – which he did a lot); T, a girlfriend, 12 times (when she was away from university). And A, 12 times (although it gets a little more complicated – she married Dd, and some letters are addressed A&Dd and some Dd&A…).
I am still in touch with 10 people on the list, which I think isn’t bad going, ten years on.
Now I have to try to find whether I have written about the places I think I wrote about, and transcribe them; then I have to find the photographs and scan.
I may be some time.