Dear Stevie,
Thank you for your letter. I hope your health remains good.
It seems we must now begin a letter this way, with a Victorian tip of the hat to physical well-being: it’s become a social prerequisite, as leaving calling cards once was. And we must end by saying, “Keep safe”. What a ridiculous concept! There is no “safe”. At any moment the fragile thread by which we dangle may break, and we may plummet into the unknown. “Safe,” the word, ought to be outlawed. It gives people false ideas.
Sorry. I’m becoming cranky about language, a thing you don’t do unless you’re past a certain age. For youngsters, things were always called what they are called right now, but for oldsters, not. We notice the gaps, the chasms. And the jokes of former decades have ceased to be jokes, while new jokes have arisen, jokes that are not always understood by us. Joking happens less frequently in the puritanical moment we are passing through – not that I wish to sound judgmental – but still, a few laughs are still permitted, it seems.
Though each generation’s catchphrases die on the vine as a matter of
