I arrived home on Friday evening at St. Bede’s in Clapham Park to find that I had mail.
“But Father! But Father!”, you are saying, thinking that I am using this word “mail” in a loose, generic sense. “From the time you went into the Buckingham Arms tonight till you sat down for supper later at the Ha Ha Restaurant, your iPhone showed 338 e-mails! Surely getting mail is no big deal!”
“Ho ho!”, I respond.
This was real snail mail.
But this post is also a note of thanks to the one who sent it.