Originally published by The Clifton Courier, April 22, 2020

I’m supposed to be making postcards right now.

A very, very sunny lady I used to work with decided to start up a postcard swapping scheme to spread a little bit of joy in These Uncertain Times. The idea is that a bunch of people she was friends with on Facebook would send her their addresses and she’d partner the participants up, like a matchmaker for pen pals.

It’s a lovely idea. I mean, I love getting mail that isn’t the state government reminding me to have my cervix checked. It’s such a thrill.

It gives you something to do other than staring at the void fretting about the almost comically depressing state of the world.

And, in theory, it would give you an inner glow thinking about spreading a wee bit of cheer with a stranger.

I received two postcards the week leading up to Easter. One was from the lady who rigged up this whole system. The other was from my postcard partner, a florist with loopy handwriting that suggests she was feeling quite serene while composing her prose.

I’ve yet to respond to either of them.

I told myself that I would get to the postcards over the weekend, reasoning that the delay in my reply would be totally understandable due to the two public holidays that bookend the resurrection of Christ.

It’s now Thursday (Easter Thursday? Can I still get away with that?) and I haven’t so much as picked up a pen.

I had “reply to postcards” on my to do list, but apparently I was too busy to tick that off. I spent the weekend watching Tiger King (mostly so I could understand the memes), sharing memes, finishing a book and starting a new one… using the two postcards as my bookmark.

Part of the hold up is because I don’t have any spare postcards laying around (well, that’s actually a lie because I like to buy postcards of the paintings I like at museum gift shops and then stick them to my wall to fill my room with great masterpieces for a bargain bin price – so I’m not about to send them in the mail).

My plan was to make some. After all, I DID do art all the way up to Year 12.

But postcards are typically short messages describe what fun you’re having on a holiday with some lovely picture of your current exotic, beautiful location on the back.

I’m in suburban Brisbane and the most fun I’ve had recently was having a discussion about the difference between the word “quash” and “squash” at work the other day (FYI: they both have similar meanings to the word “crush” but “squash” typically applies to a physical object, while “quash” is more figurative and can be used to describe things like legal invalidations).

I mean, I could lie about the fabulous things I’m absolutely not doing, but I prefer unembellished, dryly-delivered truth instead.

So I’ve boiled the postcard convention down to an even simpler form, which is: an illustration of your location on one side and a description of your activities on the other.

Here are some examples of that:

Image: My laptop resting on my unmade bed. Message: “I ordered several pairs of stretchy, high-waisted knickers to wear around the house instead of pants. I also bought some discounted scented candles I do not need but hope will be therapeutic in some way.”

Image: My phone, sitting on the kitchen bench. Message: “I called my mum today and had nothing interesting to tell her.”

Image: My darkened lounge room with several cups and a plate dotted with toast crumbs resting on the arm of the couch. Message: “I lost all sense of time while watching House Hunters and low-budget home reno shows today and now I think I’m going through an existential crisis because I’ve realised that even the shiny, new kitchens of today will be described as “dated” in a few years. I know you don’t know me, but do you think I’m a bright, patterned backsplash that was bold and refreshing when it was installed but now comes off as tired and garish?”

Image: A close up of my bathtub. Message: “I spent ages scrubbing this but you can’t really tell just by looking at it.”

Hmm. I’m not sure if this is what my friend had in mind.