In this remarkable year, our stories are at risk of being locked away on phones and floating, forgotten, in the digital ether
In the process of removing the final vestiges of my things from my parents’ house this year I find a letter from my nana – Big Nana (because she was tall), not Little Nana (who wasn’t) – written in her familiar curly script.
“Last Sunday I went to D’s 80th birthday luncheon – an exciting collection of old has-beens! One old lady said how dreadful she looked these days standing in front of the bathroom mirror (naked). Nearly all of us joined in with tales of horror – including some of the men! Surprising what a few sherrys [sic] can do.”
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