Postcards

For some reason, when on holiday, I always feel obliged to send at least two postcards; one to work and one to the only friends whose address I can actually remember.

Just choosing a postcard requires endless hours rotating a stand, incapable of making a decision on which one to pick, as if anyone gives a shit. And neither do I. Since I am clearly not really a tourist, and don't wish to be singled out as one, the whole activity is done in a furtive way, causing the eager postcard seller (how do they ever make any money from them?) to hover anxiously, rendering the decision making even more difficult. I avoid postcards which feature a flag, or a little message such as 'I love....' or 'Greetings from....'

The scenes are the same wherever one happens to be. A wonder of nature or some building or landmark, which I have normally never visited (on account of not being a tourist).

I don't know what it is, but postcards kill all creativity in me. I panic when faced with that tiny blank area in which to precis my entire holiday activities (which, to be honest, generally involve me lying on a beach for 8 hours solid reading a good book, followed by a heavy session drinking the local wine and sampling the local food. Not exactly interesting reading).

So I mention some banal feature of the weather ('It's very hot') or something about the food ('Had delicious calamari last night'). In the most dire circumstances, when I really can think of nothing else, I refer to the picture/photo for inspiration.

I then revert to a sort of mini historical lecture, along the lines 'This is the Eiffel Tower'. Really? Then I might add, 'It was built in...., by......' I blush at my patronising tone.

Usually, having been through the whole agonising process, I simply can't be bothered to queue up in some foreign post office, with hostile looking officials, to actually send the bloody thing. I end up taking it home (tattered and crumpled) and delivering it myself.

By that time, I have told everyone all about my holiday (in a jolly and amusing way, of course), so they don't even need to read it. It is consigned to postcard heaven, which is my idea of hell. Imagine having nothing to read but banal postcard messages for the rest of eternity.