ABSTRACT
I wish now that I had never thrown any postcards away. Even views of beaches and landscapes, towns and stately homes and churches have their uses in reminding me of my past and my friends’ pasts, and where I was and who I was with when I received (for example) this picture of a crowded beach at Blackpool, or that Lowry reproduction of an industrial Salford scene, or this smutty joke, postmarked, improbably, Frinton-on-Sea. After ten years or so, even postmarks and stamps become interesting. Every little part of each side of each card has all sorts of bizarre ramifications, some of them undreamt of when the card was chosen and written on, in some art gallery, or on some beach, or in some pub or café.
