Moving out means shaking off your earlier life
Look at an Irish mother’s address book: her children’s path through life, and the economic health of the country, are traced out simply and succinctly. The first tentative steps towards living somewhere with a postcode, the odd C/O here and there.
As the economy declined, many mothers’ address books contained the despot’s name that adorned the ‘Towers’ that their child lived in while making big money out in the Middle East.
Initially, Mammy may have lots of letters to readdress. Before texting, these letters carried secret messages that outfoxed foreign secret services agencies, but were understood by the children. “Will leave keys in usual place, if you are late coming in”
But, as time goes on, and the child finally gets their act together and changes their address, they leave their past address behind. The envelopes that still follow them, readdressed in a mother’s handwriting, thin out and fade away like people chasing a departing train along a platform.
But there’s always one or two that remain longer than all the others. In my case, one example is the UCC magazine for alumni. It hung around for ages. I sneer at all those past pupils with all their success. Pah! Unless they give me a mention, in which case I see it as a vital link between our finest third-level institution and the industry professionals it has nurtured.
Having said that, I would like to see a graduate magazine with a section called ‘Celebrating Ordinary Achievement’, which includes a profile of the rest of us, the ones who’ve done ok since college, but nothing to write home about. It could include a questionnaire with one question: ‘Are you busy?’, with replies like ‘Ah can’t complain, tipping away, you know yourself’. The other letter that kept coming was the bank account that I couldn’t shake off. It was a student one.
In its heyday, it was frequently used. Past bank statements showed withdrawals of £20, frequently at about 7pm on a Tuesday or Thursday evening, enough for a night out. The only flows in the opposite direction were three maintenance-grant cheques (farmer’s son, of course, TYPICAL) — the three figures to the left of the decimal point sticking out a mile amongst a plethora of two-digit entries.
For years, they told me about this dormant account. It probably cost them a few hundred euro to inform me that I had a balance of five cents and a rate of 0.00000001% interest.
I could have closed the account years before I did, but I had to write to them and, OMG, like who does THAT any more? But, eventually, I did and that was the last of the readdressed letters.
Until this one, which reunites my name with my original address, like a band and a lead singer who had a bitter row but who have agreed to put it aside for one last gig. I was at home when it arrived and seeing the familiar combination triggered that old excitement about ‘the Post’.
Long before the little red number on Facebook or the bold-font indication of a new email, the arrival of letters was the stimulus for ‘notification anxiety’, which is ubiquitous now. It feels good. So, to Dripsey Tidy Towns Association, who sent a letter saying thanks for supporting their raffle, I say ‘No. Thank YOU for addressing me’.
CONNECT WITH US TODAY
Be the first to know the latest news and updates
