Lightning striking twice!

"Lightning never strikes twice..." as the internet search engines will tell you, is regrettably not true. Moreover, my own sad experience will vouch for it. On my second day in India, an electrical power surge blew the wiring in my laptop adaptor, and on my last day in Mattindia, a week ago, the same thing happened again. At least I knew now to resolve the problem; I would have to buy a new DELL accessory from eBay India, and have it delivered to Pondicherry. More of that later. 

The journey across India from West to East was pleasant enough, apart from the weight of my luggage. I was beginning to regret the decision to make primitive knives the subject of my next collection of authentic artifacts. Then there were clothes. I couldn't bear to start shedding old clothes yet, and hadn't thought through my decision to have half-a-dozen shirts made (£2.50 each) which weighed little but took up a lot of space.

All in all, it was a painful struggle to haul my backpack and my hold-all most of the 24-coach length of the platform to find the approximate position where I would board.

4 berths are set across the width of the carriage
and two in line with the direction of travel

 I then struggled along the narrow corridor and collapsed into my "2/AC" compartment, relieved to find that berth 55 was on the lower lever and would not require me to negotiate the iron ladder to get upstairs. 

"2/AC" stands for 2-tier air-conditioned. 3-tier is rather claustrophobic; you feel you are lying on a shelf, but 2-tier is comfortable and provided with fresh linen and warm blankets.

Working in the paddy fields

The train rattled along for 12 hours, stopping at occasional rural stations that appeared to be totally deserted, then we travelled for the last couple of hours through mile upon mile of paddy-fields.

Suddenly it was Pondicherry and to my relief, a young man burst into the carriage looking for a customer needing a porter. I felt sorry for him, and although I refused to pay him more than a fifth of what he demanded, it was probably five times what he would normally make from one passenger. 

Auto-rickshaws awaiting customers

The auto rickshaw rattled along into town, and I began to see this former French colonial outpost revealing its unique character. While India became independent in 1947, Pondicherry remained separate until 1954. But Pondicherry wasn't so "unique" to me because it reminded me of the visits I used to make from Aden to Djibouti almost 50 years ago as a young management trainee with the global BATA shoe company. Tree-lined streets with the familiar blue and white street signs, boutiques and cafés and the indisputable flavour of a certain je ne sais quoi.

MANTRA - the villa in a garden

My studio-apartment is on the upper floor of a villa set in a garden. The owners have bought the adjacent plot and are building more accommodation, but they will keep the traditional style of architecture. For the moment there are just a couple of other guests. There is a fine swimming pool - I can have an hour a day in it, and there is a flat roof and a terrace where I can catch the sun. 
But . . . I came here to write, and the lack of a functioning laptop was the first problem I had to address.

All I wanted to do was repeat the order of 2 months ago, with a different shipping address. But last time I had persuaded the proprietor at Mattindia to use his Indian-registered credit card, and I didn't have that option now in Pondicherry.

Nor did I have a functioning computer.

I consider it a significant achievement that I not only ordered the adaptor on my iPhone, I also negotiated two levels of credit-checking and anti-fraud measures, before getting to grips with the customer service division who didn't seem to want to work weekends.

My eagerly-awaited replacement

I tracked down a phone number last Tuesday, (no small achievement as you will know if you deal with online companies who like to avoid human contact whenever possible,) and was assured that everything was happening. However, I continued to send EMAILS IN BLOCK CAPITALS until I finally received the assurance that the delivery would be completed on February 11th. I persevered with increasingly forceful communications, and yesterday received confirmation that the item had been despatched, and would arrive on Monday, Feb 1st.

It didn't!

It arrived today - January 30th . . . and I am happily writing again, after the agony of a week when I tried to communicate by using an iPhone that got overheated and phoned whoever, whenever it liked, in addition to inventing its own language for text messages.

All part of the fun of travel. And, when it comes to being a dinner-party guest, my future diatribes can be guaranteed to bore my fellow guests until they quickly top up my glass to subdue me!

Meanwhile, there's always the swimming-pool.

The swimming-pool : exclusively mine for an hour per day

What is Ayurveda?

Tradition has it that the secrets of Ayurveda were passed on orally by wise men, 
in meetings in the foothhills of the Himalayas

One of the first questions people ask me when I come back from a trip like this is to explain what Ayurveda is all about. The short answer is that Ayur means Life and Veda means Knowledge, but that is a rather trite statement which essentially reveals little more than the idea that Ayurveda is one of the holistic healing practices – believing in the unity of physical and mental health.

One of the more interesting features of Ayurveda is the belief that different people may have the same outward symptoms, but may react differently to particular treatments, and may actually be suffering from different problems. Consequently your treatments here are personal to you, and another guest with identical symptoms may be prescribed significantly different treatments. After this second spell at Mattindia, it’s clear that the resident doctor knows her discipline, judging from the results that I am seeing in my personal health. It's all about "rebalancing" the body - not that I fully understand what that means, but that description feels right.

Ayurvedic medicines use entirely natural ingredients - mainly based on herbs and spices

You may recall that I panicked when my CPAP sleep pump developed an electrical fault on my third night in India, and burned out. I have been using the CPAP for more than 20 years, to stop my windpipe collapsing and restricting my breathing while I sleep . I tried to get a replacement machine flown out to me, and in the meantime I struggled with extra pillows to try and breathe comfortably. In the end it was impossible to cope with import restrictions in India, so I would just have to get by somehow. However, I was finding it gradually easier to get to sleep and to sleep soundly. At the time, Dr Shoba had prescribed various medicines, and I couldn’t remember which was for what, I just tossed back the pretty little pills and waited to see what would happen next. Little did I realise that the syrup to be taken three times daily before meals was targetting my windpipe and helping it to open up, rather than collapse as it did when I was suffering from Obstructive Sleep Apnoea.

Ayurvedic medicines are administered in a number of ways. The most familiar method is, of course, pills most of which are prescribed to be taken three times daily. For people used to tiny capsules, some of the tablets can be challengingly large. The other oral medicine is euphemistically termed “syrup,” but it is herbal and can taste pretty disgusting. Again, it’s three times daily, so you soon realise that you are consuming quite large quantities of medication in the course of the day.

Other substances are administered via other routes. In addition to the 5-day course of medicated enemas and 7 days of leeches that I described in an earlier post, I have had a 7-day course of nasal drops preceded with a facial massage. The drops stung fiercely, but the irritation was relieved by the subsequent steam bath. For this, I sat on a chair while a steam pipe was directed under a sheet thrown over my head- a bit like sitting in a small tent set up to work like a Turkish Bath. The stinging in the nasal passages was much soothed by the steam, and by Day Seven was non-existent. 

Two masseurs working in unison

Another route for Ayurvedic treatment is transdermal – i.e. through the skin. I have described my hot spice and herbal massages and at present I am having Powder Massage, which is a rub-down with medicated sawdust. Finally, there are the medicated baths, which are truly luxurious. There’s the Steam Bath described above, then there’s the Water Bath, which involves lying on the bench at the end of a massage session, covered from shoulders to toes with a cotton sheet. The therapists then keep pouring a steady flow of hot medicated water all over you. The sheet distributes the water and heat, and since the bench is on a slope, the water then drains off and back into the pan that is sitting on a gas ring. The Oil Bath is – for me – the ultimate, and I am delighted to note from my treatment sheet that I shall be having it every day now till I leave for Pondicherry at the end of the week. I lie on the bench – no sheet this time – and the two guys pour thick, hot, medicated oil all over my body for about 20 minutes. The sensation is indescribably luxurious, and surprisingly exhausting. When they finish, and scrape the oil off me with squeegees I feel quite light-headed and make my way dizzily back to my room to recover before I take a shower.

My blood pressure is a healthy 130/ 80

It was only in today’s consultation that I realised the progress of the past weeks. My blood pressure is down from 160/90 to 130/80.  My hay-fever, which has plagued me for 5 years with frequent sneezing fits, has completely disappeared. 

I no longer produce embarrassing amounts of phlegm and mucus, nor do I have a tickle in my throat that used to generate long bouts of coughing. The oedema (swelling) in my lower legs is greatly reduced and the skin colouration is back to normal. I have no problem breathing at night and fall asleep easily, so I doubt if I shall go back to using my CPAP machine again. 

Best of all, I have shed over two and a half stone (37lbs/16.8kg) and it’s still dropping off. I have purchased a 3-month supply of the anti-appetite pills, so I shall see if I can stick to the harsh regime that has led to such amazing results.

So why has this stay been so effective? I think it's because in the past I, like other guests, have treated  fortnight or so at Mattindia as a spa holiday. Previously, I have more or less followed the regime, but I have acted as if this were just a different kind of holiday. This time I have treated the place more like a hospital; I've not socialised at all; I have treated my stay as a break from all the usual pressures and routines, and usually taken an afternoon nap. I have forced my brain to switch off and encouraged my body to relax completely.

I now feel ready for a fresh start, and who knows what that might lead to?  Don't you envy  me my next destination. . . . ?

Studio Apartment with pool and gardens in Pondicherry (click to go to website)

Fashion, Food and Gleaming Smiles

It’s a sign of progress that Indian villagers are enticed away from the row of dusty shacks that are their local High Street and head off to visit the towns and the air-conditioned shopping malls that are festooned with labels and brands and racist posters portraying all kinds of beauty products.

Yes, “racist.”  Marketing racism is rife throughout India, and it’s a subtle form of commercial pressure. 

Mediterranean skin-tones and glamorous Indian hair

I am not talking about ethnic divisions in everyday society, nor discrimination against people of different religions, though this may well exist in different areas. What I am talking about is racism within normal society, in the way Indians themselves choose to value their appearance. 
It is comparable to the way that unrealistically svelte, photo-shopped images of female models dominate European fashion advertising, even though they are unrepresentative of at least 99% of women in society. 

In Indian advertisements, a dark complexion is considered socially inferior, and fashion models appear to have impossibly pale skin. What makes them Indian is the thick rope of jet-black hair, the full, dark eye-brows and clearly defined eye make-up, but the fashionable skin-tone is always, let’s say, something north of Sheffield in February.

As one travels, it seems so much of the world is chasing Europe and America, and the economic growth reveals itself through the growth of fast-food outlets.

Burgers and pizzas in cities throughout India

Pizza is universal, alongside bottled fizzy drinks, bottled water, (filtered mains supply – not from a natural spring,) and coffee. Slices of sweet, white aerated bread make sandwiches that are filled with cheese and tomato and smothered with mayonnaise. Thankfully, traditional Indian street food is still to be found, though not by someone who is aiming to see the benefits of a total detox in a loosening of the waist-band. 

The full Bollywood smile

But I wasn’t after a snack this morning; today, I wanted to visit the dentist; - and here is another market that is following western consumer trends. 

Everyone wants the full Bollywood smile treatment. While this costs hundreds in UK and thousands in USA, in India the full course, covering a year, costs just £120.

Chippy Thrideep is the village dentist, and an increasing proportion of her work is now cosmetic work for the teenage children of the rising Indian middle class. I met her on my last visit and thought I might as well give her my custom again, and have a full check-up, scale and polish while I was staying in the village, - her practice is just a couple of hundred yards up the road from Mattindia. Ms Chippy Thrideep, impressed me when I was last here, both with her gentle skills and with the ultra-modern facilities of her spotless surgery. She is petite, barely five feet tall with glamorous looks and a sparkling smile. She and her assistant made light work of giving my teeth a thorough clean and polish, after which she explained that one of my fillings, at the front near the gum-line, needed repairing. I told her to go ahead, and she executed the job carefully, with material that matched perfectly. 

My personal tooth-fairy

I would dearly like to have Chippy as my dentist and personal tooth-fairy if she were based in Lincolnshire, but she would never survive if she were earning her Kerala rates. 

Her total bill for half-an-hour of cleaning, scraping, polishing and filling amounted to just under £10.

A Course of Treatment

I have 29 doses of medication every day. I start with 30 ml of “syrup.” This is a dark brown thin liquid that doesn’t taste too bad. Then I take 2 pink capsules, 2 green capsules

2 large green pills, 1 tiny brown pill plus my Lincoln doctor’s pills, one for blood pressure and one for “urgency.” 

All that before breakfast, then after breakfast I have 30ml of the most disgusting bitter black liquid that I dilute and throw back as quickly as I can. 
I would love to stop taking that one - but it is for fat reduction, so I persevere. 
All the Ayurvedic medicines are then repeated before lunch and before the evening meal.

Every morning I have two massage sessions, but the Ayurvedic massage is very different from the sort of gentle beautician treatment we know in the west. Proper Ayurvedic massage is a four-handed affair. You have two masseurs (the masseuses are reserved for lady guests, sadly.) The masseurs are clothed; you are not. 

You shuffle into the treatment room, hang your dhoti or dressing-gown on a hook and sit on the side of the massive, solid wooden massage bench. It’s more than a yard wide and 8 feet long. While one masseur supports your chest, the other starts an exquisite, gentle oiling massage of your back and shoulders. After a while they change round, and the second masseur starts oiling your front and getting the circulation going.

For the next stage, they both take up positions facing you and work simultaneously on your left and right arms. They are perfectly synchronised to time with your grunts, squeezing down your arms as if they were trying to make your fingernails pop off. But it’s not painful, it’s exhilarating.

I then lie face down, and they start the massage-proper, again working up and down and side to side in unison. I always feel very vulnerable, lying stark naked while two fearsome foreigners molest me, but there’s not much to do except resign myself to the experience and lie there helpless.

There are various types of massage, mostly pretty messy and smelly in a herbal/spicy sort of way. At present I have two sessions. In the first, they heat up dried beans with medicinal spices in a big pan over a gas ring, and then wrap the beans in a piece of muslin and pummel away all over my body with these hot pads. For the second treatment, they have a mixture of leaves tied in muslin, and they dip this bundle in hot oil before pounding my body all over. But it’s not really suffering, because the sensation is pleasantly stimulating. Once the massaging is over they wipe off the worst of the oil, then send me to my room with strict instructions to sit quietly for at least 30 minutes before showering.

Most guests then plan their afternoon on the beach or seeing the sights in Kochi, but that’s not for me, as I am now on Phase Two of my treatment. (Those of a sensitive disposition should skip the rest of this post.) Ah me; this is where they put the TREAT into treatment. (NOT!)

I lie on the bench while they give my stomach a thorough hard rub-down: first my front, then around my midriff on my back. I then lie on my side while they give me a warm oil enema. The anticipation is worse than the experience, and it comes with the instruction to go and lie down and “hold it in for at least an hour.” Of course, the instinct is to do the exact opposite, and I lie on my bed trying not to think about it, then trying to concentrate on what I am supposed to do, and I am never quite sure which is the most effective strategy.

But, once again, the apprehension is unnecessary, because it isn’t really that difficult, it’s just that the whole experience is very unfamiliar, and in NHS terms, quite unthinkable.

And now comes the real treat. The leeches to drain the infected blood from the calves of my legs.

But I think you’ve had enough for one session; so we’ll leave that for . . . well maybe we’ll just leave it. No? You want to know about leeches? Ah well, if you insist, skip the rest if you are squeamish, or click on this link if you want to read more about leeches and see what they look like.

Oedema is a fairly common condition of swelling of the legs and ankles caused by fluid retention and poor circulation, which, in my case are partly the result of my size, and of spending 15 years on my feet, in the restaurant kitchen. Cellulitis is a blood infection which can be the result of a tiny scratch or insect bite, and is aggravated by poor circulation, so the combination of cellulitis and oedema is an unhealthy condition for someone my size and age. As I well know, it’s a condition that is also difficult to eradicate.

They gave me intravenous antibiotics in Lincoln Hospital

In 2014, Lincoln hospital prescribed me 90 days of penicillin following intravenous anti-biotics while I was hospitalised. The condition responded, but not completely and the infection remained.

One of the treatments at Mattindia is to use leeches to draw out the infected blood and excess fluid from the area. This is a treatment I had last year and found that it gave some relief to both the cellulitis and the oedema, though I have to say that the experience is initially daunting for someone coming from a more conventional and drug-based medical culture.

It’s very simple: I sit at my desk and read or write with my feet in a bowl containing an inch or two of water. A medical orderly puts a leech on my lower leg, and after a while it attaches itself to my foot or leg – but there is virtually no sensation to me. The leech then continues to draw out the liquid until it is replete – at which stage it simply drops into the water.

All straightforward so far, but the problem is that the blood keeps flowing, which is probably caused by the anticoagulant that exists in the saliva of the leech. The medical orderly cleans and bandages the tiny wound, but nothing seems to stop the flow, and I finish up going to bed that night with yards of bandaging and my lower leg wrapped in towels to absorb the flow.

The worst part is that I have been virtually immobile for the current week as I have to spend my day sitting and waiting – either because of the enema, or because of the leeches. No excuse not to write – even though I have probably made my hundred or so followers more than a little squeamish.

Sorry, about that. Maybe I should stick to lampooning the French.

A Cacophony of Frogs

Actually, the collective noun for a number of frogs is a knot or a colony, but neither has the relevant connotations, since I was seeking a noun to describe an extremely loud group of middle-aged French women whose every conversational sentence began with the supremely egotistical phrase ”Moi, je…..”  

For the last ten days they have insisted on talking to each other, all the time, which is, of course, something Anglo-Saxons would not dream of engaging in without at least some kind of introduction. 

I had thought that by the time mid-morning came around they wouldn’t have much left to say for the day, but their conversation rises in speed and volume towards the evening, as they forge on, mostly all speaking at same time, in what must be a specialised French way of minimising the pauses between one person’s statement and the other’s response.

Most of them left this morning, though I see from the wall-chart in the office that replacements are en-route. 

It's always entertaining to watch the newbies get used to the place.

So far, I haven’t had to mix much with other guests since I have been on a special diet, which immediately attracts stares and puzzlement from my inquisitive fellow-guests.

If I had sat at the long table as I would normally, I would have been explaining my special diet in French, German and Italian on a daily basis, and quite honestly, it was easier to pick up my plate from the kitchen and scurry back up to my veranda rather than be forcibly multi-lingual.

It’s quieter here now, and we are more multicultural with no dominant tribe for a while. Here at Mattindia, this is what tends to happen: when one nationality has more than half a dozen representatives, the whole establishment undergoes a cultural shift. 

At the beginning of December, it was the Spanish who picked at their chick-peas and chapattis and then escaped to Mehrin Bakery and Tea-Rooms on the corner for something exquisitely sticky, washed down with the Raj’s equivalent of a Caffe Latte – which is not a million taste-buds away from a bottle of Camp chicory drink, made up with evaporated milk and several sugars.

The Italians always develop serious caffeine-withdrawal with the absence of an espresso machine and try, desperately, firstly to understand an electric kettle, and then try to coax a vague Arabica flavour out of the freeze-dried powder in the jar labelled “Coffee,” but to no avail.

Northern European guests tend to be sophisticated and take it all in their stride. 

They didn’t expect immaculate décor or fawning service, which is just as well, because you either take Mattindia as it is – grubby and glorious - or you are very unhappy and don’t really understand India, wanderlust or the importance of always carrying a pack of tissues.

I have tissues bound to my legs at the moment, to staunch the rivers of blood that really messed up the bathroom floor, transforming it into a scene-set for Hitchcock. 

It’s the leeches, you see. But I’ll save the horror of my treatments till next time.

On the High Street

Vallethode is the name of this village, but that’s never been any use when I have spoken to bus conductors or rickshaw drivers. Thankfully, someone has usually overheard my linguistic struggle and repeated the word until the other party grasped my meaning. If you Google “Mehrin Bakery, Vallethode” and you’ll find a building icon on the map, and if you go to Google Earth, you’ll have a better idea of the terrain. It burgeons, richly verdant, on either side of the North / South road, with paths heading off eastwards and westwards to small-holdings, or sheds where women squat on the ground peeling tiny prawns for freezing, (cook before using.)

The village itself comprises a number of simple stores, such as you might find anywhere in the Third World. The goods are scattered around, sometimes using display material that the sales rep. has supplied, but more often just lined up on shelves behind a makeshift counter. Lightweight items like household brushes and plastic utensils, children’s toys, packets of potato crisps and sugary confectionery hang from the ceiling or from the awning outside. There is no pressure to buy; I am a guest on the shopkeeper’s territory and he will talk to me when he has caught up with the local gossip from a passer-by.

The range of goods on offer in Indian village shops is steadily changing as the supply chain alters. The hardware shop still has locally woven basketwork winnowing trays, but these are now outsold by the ones that are factory-produced in brightly-coloured, injection-moulded plastic. The same shop has a few mattocks and trowels from the local blacksmith, but most of the ironware clearly comes from a distant manufacturer. My search for handicrafts is not very fruitful; I should have started a decade ago.

Thanks to Mattindia, the people of Vallethode are used to foreigners, and share a mutual lack of English in conversation and negotiation with the majority of the continental European guests. It is usually assumed that I am German, probably from a combination of my large size and the fact that Brits are comparatively rare at Mattindia. Whenever I have been in India, I have always met a resoundingly positive reaction to my nationality. A few days ago, travelling here from the ashram, I met a man around my age, who engaged me in conversation in the railway buffet, and went to great lengths to explain to me just how grateful India was to Britain, for the infrastructure and education system that had enabled India to achieve its current thriving expansion. Having lived in pre-independence Africa, and experienced something of British colonialism first-hand, I have never felt Britain should wallow in remorse and guilt for its role in history. Anyway; that’s history, and India is now showing its teeth and showing the world how to build a nation in the 21^st century.

The village barber, one of three along the street, but the only one I've tried, operates from what might generously be called a shed, except that most sheds are somewhat tidier. A dozen pairs of scissors and assorted combs lie jumbled on a wooden shelf and various electric clippers await their opportunity to reshape a personality.

Far too respectable for me !

I was relieved when the proprietor hygienically fitted a brand-new razor blade into the cut-throat handle, to scrape around my neck and ears, but glanced askance at the heaps of black hair on the floor, onto which he casually brushed the clouds of snowy fluff he had trimmed from my head.

I knew there would have been no point in trying to explain that I just wanted a light trim, and since I’ll be flying home in seven weeks with plenty of new growth to hide the damage, I decided, in the spirit of adventure, to let him do his worst.

He did.

Keeping in Touch

At the tender age of 16, John Pollard and I went hitchhiking in Germany and Austria. We had return rail tickets from London to Munich, Youth Hostel cards, sleeping bags and a small tent. 

Phone booths in post offices were operator-connected

Our parents lost us for two weeks, and if there had been an emergency, we would have had to go through the complication of finding one of the limited number of post offices which had a row of cabins to which international calls could be connected. 

Even the shortest call would have been very expensive: probably in the region of £50 in modern terms.

Telegrams were the alternative 24-hour option, facilitating stilted and stunted messages to arrive at the receiving post office in strips of capital letters, which a clerk then pasted onto a standard Royal Mail form.

Telex machine and trained operator

Years later, I was International Sales Director of SodaStream with the task of, building a global business without the benefit of the internet. Hence, no emails, just telex – which had to be keyed in by the designated operator on an oversized keyboard machine, 

not unlike the ones my father had used in 1945, establishing communications between the War Office in London and the front line in France after the Normandy invasion.

But TODAY ! I look around and observe everyone –myself included, of course – in constant communication with the world. I have to stop and ponder the change, the impact and the effect on REAL communication.

I'm sure you remember the indignant uproar when refugees from Syria arrived in Europe, carrying the very latest smart-phones

A modern smart-phone does the work of 35 different devices

We Europeans have always regarded the cell-phone as a luxury item, but it’s not that for the majority of the world’s population. When I first started writing about the telecommunications business, fifteen years ago, communication in Africa was opening up with the roadside deconstructed kiosk. Just a woman, sitting on an upturned beer crate, offering use of her mobile phone by the minute. You gave her the number; she made the connection and passed you the handset. When you had finished your call, she checked the actual cost and added a handling charge. 

Young men love their phones

In a matter of months, telecommunications had transformed how people could keep in touch. Handset costs took a dive, and mobile phone ownership soon became an essential tool in running any kind of micro-business, and in every young person's social life.

Internet Browsing and Email Centre

In India we are now seeing the death of the internet café. Once everywhere, the offices are still there, but they are now run-down and deserted. Everyone is online and they’ve got the whole wide world in their hand.

Mattindia tends to attract seasoned independent travellers, and they all seem to spend a fair amount of time on the internet. I know plenty of people blog, as I do, and like to record and share their impressions and experiences. What I don’t know is how the nature of people’s homeward communications has changed. When I travelled in my student years, my parents kept all my letters and I have them all to this day, packed in a box under my bed. I am too embarrassed to break it open and wallow in my ramblings, afraid I’ll be ashamed of the stuff I wrote about, - and would rather let that slip into the past.

I treasure my the letters I exchanged with my parents when I was in Africa, - but do people write personal letters much any longer? I keep in touch with my children and grandchildren with FaceTime and Skype, and perhaps that’s more important. 

I have only one regret about my communications, and that is that I wish I had penned more hand-written notes of thanks, congratulations or condolence. I know the emotions I experience when the postman delivers an envelope that is hand-addressed in fountain-pen, and I love to share those feelings with others.

So there's another New Year's resolution !