An old man sits at a large oak desk. A roaring fire blazes away, drying his greatcoat which hangs nearby. His mind is focused on a portrait hanging over the fireplace. He glances around the room, his eyes falling on other portraits that hang against the dark wood paneling. He takes a sip of brandy and his thoughts return to his letter.

Working by candle light he dips his quill and in magnificent script signs his name on the bottom of the thick heavy parchment. After blotting his work, he folds the letter, places it in a large envelope and drips the aromatic wax across the fold. Finding his large seal, he firmly stamps his crest into the wax. Knowing that the letter may take months to arrive at its destination, he sighs and rings for his valet to hasten it to post.

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And here I sit with a little plastic machine, almost instantly receiving hate mail from cowardly little pricks who can’t spell.

The contrast is depressing.

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The above post was written a few years ago on my first blog. In fact, it was one of the first things I’d ever posted. It was then and continues to be a pretty accurate portrayal of my feelings. I found this yesterday whilst going over some of my stuff and decided to write a short story around it. I’m giving myself until Friday, so long as things don’t get too crazy.