Letter to Rebecca #24-05

In which we cover mail, potholes, alternative universes and a paradox

STOP PRESS: I’d accidentally set this post to allow comments from paid subscribers only. That was inadvertent. I’ve changed it so that anyone can comment now. Thanks to Rebecca for letting me know, and to whoever let her know.

Dear Rebecca

Mail, by Terry Freedman

How lovely to hear from you. Before I respond to the specifics of your letter, I thought you might be interested in postal delivery times. This came to mind because I’ve been reading Pride and Prejudice, and the people in it communicate by letter. Apparently, during Jane Austen’s era (she was the one who wrote Pride and Prejudice, in case you didn’t know¹), it took 48 hours to deliver a letter from London to Bath. That’s better than we get now half the time. Also, paper was expensive, so when the writer had filled up both sides he or she would start writing up the sides.

I did this when I was at university in Liverpool, when I wrote to my cousin in Leeds. I once sent her a letter in which the writing started on the outside and went in a spiral until my sign-off in the middle.

On another occasion I wrote a letter to her on card, then cut the card up into jigsaw puzzle shapes, put the whole lot in an envelope, and sent it off.

Speaking of envelopes, in Austen’s time they didn’t have any. They folded the writing paper in such a way that it was all tight, not flapping about all over the place. It doesn’t sound like a very private way to convey information, does it?

When I was very young, I mean under five years old, I used to wonder how the post ended up at its destination when you popped a letter through one of these:

Pillar box, by Terry Freedman

I imagined a subterranian system of pipes that automatically ‘knew’ where each letter had to go. It’s funny how children think, isn’t it?

When I was growing up, there were six collections a day — six! Now there’s only one. There also used to be two deliveries a day, as opposed to one these days. And the postmen (there weren’t postwomen) wore uniforms. Our postmen sometimes wear shorts!

Now, in case you think I’m suffering from false memory syndrome, have a look at this article about postal deliveries.

When I was living in the parental home, we went through a spate of post not being delivered. There was no email in those days, so I had a postal correspondence with the post office — it’s a miracle I actually received any replies come to think of it.

Every time I discovered that I hadn’t received a letter I found out had been sent, I got in touch with them. One day I received a letter from the post office along these lines:

Dear Mr Freedman

I’m sorry to hear that your post wasn’t delivered. However, I cannot understand why.

I replied:

Dear —

Thank you for your letter. I cannot understand either, but do you think it might have something to with the fact that last week the postman left his sack of letters outside a shop while he bought some cigarettes, and that when he came out of the shop the sack had disappeared?

This correspondence went on for some time. They got rid of that postman and employed another one who’d read his job description — ie that he had to deliver letters. I was on quite friendly terms with him.

One day I received a letter from the Post Office:

Dear Mr Freedman

I am writing to inform you that we have taken special measures to ensure that your mail is delivered. Hopefully you will not experience any further problems.

“At last!”, I thought. “We have finally arrived in the 20th century. They must be using a modern electronic system to check the post.”

When I saw the postman I showed him this letter, and asked him what the special measures were. “Ah, yes”, he said. “There is a huge notice up in the sorting office that says ‘If you come across any letters addressed to Terry Freedman, for God’s sake deliver the bloody things’!”

Simple but effective, eh?

We seem to have a disagreement about whether or not we’ve met in person. You included “proof” in the form of photographs in your letter, and I suggested they were fakes. I also note that many of your subscribers believe you rather than me. Typical. However, I have come up with a theory that would make us both correct.

Science fiction writers, and indeed some scientists, have posited the view that the world with which we are familiar is but one of an infinite number of alternative universes. I suggest that through some quirk of space-time you ended up in a parallel dimension in which you and I met, while I and the Rebecca from the other world did not meet up here. That would account for both of our views. What do you think?

I don’t know if you know, but the Mayor of London, Sadiq Khan, has renamed half a dozen of the capital’s railway lines. For example, one of them is going to be called the Suffragette Line, in case we weren’t aware that women have the vote. A letter to The Times (London) began as follows:

Having spent £6.3 million on renaming railway lines, if Sadiq Khan has any money left over, he could allocate funds to naming our other notable transport landmarks: London’s potholes.

That made me laugh!

Thank you for anagrammatising my name into Dr Meefy Ranter, and for including my other names. It’s also useful to have an alias, as I proved in this conversation when I was a teacher:

Student: Have you marked our homework, Sir?

Me: What homework? I didn’t give you any.

Student: Yes you did, last Wednesday.

Me: Oh that would explain it. I don’t teach on a Wednesday. You had my twin brother.

Student: What’s his name?

Me: Mr Freedman.

They weren’t sure whether to believe me or not.

And that, Becks, epitomises one of my finest achievements. There are adults around now who, when they were kids, were completely bamboozled by me. I especially enjoyed this particular episode:

Me to class: I’ve decided today to tell you about Zeno’s Paradox.

Student: Who was Zeno?

Me: Some Greek bloke who lived in the fifth century BC. Anyway, he said that you could never get anywhere because before you had travelled to your destination, you had to travel halfway, but before you could do so you’d first have to travel half of that distance. [While saying this I was deliberately walking up and down the length of the classroom.]

Student: But you’re walking the whole distance to the end of the classroom and back!

Me: No, that’s impossible.

Students [en masse]: BUT YOU ARE!

Me: No, I’m afraid you’re all suffering from a mass illusion. Zeno didn’t get to be famous by just making stuff up.

In my defence, a principal aim of mine was to get the students to think, question and refute arguments intellectually rather than emotionally. In other words, there was method in my madness².

And on that note, Rebecca, I will sign off and leave you in peace.

All the best

Terry

Note to peeps reading this: make sure you see Rebecca’s reply by subscribing to her Substack,

Dear Reader, I'm lost

— and to mine, of course.

Thanks for reading this. Comments always welcome.

1. I know that you do know but I can never resist teasing you. Sorry!

2. This is from the play Omelette: “Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.” (Polonius, Act 2 Scene 2) . I bet you didn’t know that, did you? (Please see footnote 1.)