I have never really been a letter writer throughout my life, having been born at the dawn of the information technology explosion. My life has been intrinsically linked with the birth and development of the personal computer so it has always been there for me. I think when I was younger a few friends had pen pals, scattered across the globe, but they were in the minority.

The problem has been that all of this technology has stripped something from my life that was such a key part of earlier generations: anticipation.

My mother was a letter writer in earlier days. I have vivid memories of her sat at the dining room table, the paper spread out, a pale blue. She used John Dickinson paper with matching envelopes and used to write with a tortoiseshell Parker pen. There would always be a ball of tissue paper covered in deep blue blotches from where she had refilled the reservoir and the bottle would stand in deep, deep blue to one side of the paper. I was always enchanted by the whole process and would watch her write, in beautiful script on this heavily laid paper. Those moments, that occurred most weekends, probably proved to be the genesis of my love of stationery.

Recently I was on Twitter with a group of friends and we were bemoaning the loss of so many things. I think it happens to us all at a certain age; a longing for things from our past, from a rose-tinted yesterday when things were simpler. But we all agreed that this instant and constant information could be a bit too overwhelming. So we decided to start writing letters instead. Obviously we are not the first to start doing this again, there does seem to be a resurgence in letter writing in general, but it has been something that, I for one, am deeply grateful for.

My main correspondent lives in America and we have started to exchange letters on a frequent basis and one thing I have found is I am never as excited by the arrival of a tweet as I am a letter. An email doesn’t even inspire such pleasure. When get home and see the letter on the table, stamped and franked and well travelled, I feel that leap of joy. I feel that anticipation. I don’t even rip it open because a letter deserves more respect. I wait until I have the time to sit and read it properly, even if that means a few days wait, it is worth it. Again, that anticipation. Whatever the news, it is worth it. I think the fact that it is something physical in my hands means I invest it with more care and importance.

I write using a Kaweco Sport. It is cheap in comparison to a lot of pens, but it is beautiful and, more importantly, it has a screw lid. I then use Dickinson’s Three Candlesticks paper when I can, with matching envelopes, but in ivory rather than pale blue. If it is airmail, as it is to my American friend, then it is on Airmail paper. Tradition, after all, is everything.

The writing takes the same discipline as the reading, with time and space set aside. I copy my mother, spreading everything across the table, including the latest letter of the person I am writing to, and I write. It often takes a couple of hours with interruptions to get the letter finished but that is the point, it isn’t instant gratification. For that alone, it is priceless.

So as I write this on an iPad, to upload to a website, from which I will tweet a link and post to Facebook, I wait in eager anticipation of that letter, waiting on a table.