We have forgotten the humble Christmas card. It will soon be doomed

THE letterbox clanks. As is always the case, I gallop downstairs to see what the post brings. This, I think, is a feature of the self-employed. The lack of a buzzing office atmosphere means that the postman’s arrival is a big deal. What will today bring? Maybe I’ve finally won the million euro in the Prize Bonds?

Today, it has all the makings of ‘a bad post’. A printing company has sent me its 450th sample of their work. Note: If you’ve ever engaged the services of a printing company, for anything, they will send you samples for ever-after. It’s as if they are saying: “My friend, when I was feeling low, you ordered 1,000 fliers for your comedy show. I hear that no-one went to it, so now it is my turn. You shall never want for slightly crap pens with a ‘Your Logo Here’ printed on them for as long as both of us draw a breath.”

There is also a letter from a charity, telling me what they are doing with my money.

I suppose, in a way, that is like winning the prize bonds, because the gift of life is the greatest gift of ... Ah! who am I kidding — WHERE’S MY MILLION BIG ONES?

There is one other letter. The envelope is red, square, and the address handwritten. It’s a Christmas card. And I realise: where are all the Christmas cards? I can’t complain — I haven’t sent any either.

As this, and subsequent, generations fled the coops and thought we were independent and cool with our Billy bookcases, George Foreman grills and Breaking Bad boxsets, we forgot the humble Christmas card. Eventually, it will be doomed: the pack of 30 cards, bought to support the good work being done by the Poor Sisters of the Blessed Situation, the Pot-Bellied Pig Sanctuary.

There’s a cohort of people of a certain age — mainly Mammies — keeping them alive in a Christmas-card exchange that is a part of our cultural history. Some cards have a leaf of Belvedere Bond paper stuck in the middle, so as to pass on more sensitive pieces of information about bunions, gallstones and Himself’s cholesterol. They form the bulk of post-office hums with their conversation, around this time, with information about who “took a nasty fall at so-and-so’s funeral”, punctuated by cries from the counter “have the stamps gone up AGAIN?”

A lot of people just send their messages electronically, and to many at once — so much so that the very currency of the Christmas greeting has become devalued.

A few years ago it was the group text: “Happy Xmas to you and yours”. The phone beeped constantly in You and Yours’ houses, from after dinner up until when the ‘Quare Film’ came on at 1am (the one they didn’t preview in the RTÉ Guide).

Now, it’s more likely to be a Facebook post with too much information. Whereas, before, the Irish mother would delicately allude to the previous year’s travails with an “ah, but we can’t complain. We have our health, TG”, now it’s more overt.

“Hapy Xmas 2 all my peeps. Not sory to see 2014 ovr after wat hapend wit Darren n all but hope he and his new gf have a good one NOT! LOL. C u all 4 wine on Stephenses. Guna get messy LOL”

It’s too late for this year, but, in 2015, I think I’m going to send a paper version. This year, I’ll just say it through ‘De Paper’: Happy Christmas Peeps.

Colm O’Regan’s third book, The Christmas Book of Irish Mammies, is out now.