The postage stamp on the slightly blue-tinged envelope says 19 FEB 1974. That was 16 years before I was born. The writing inside doesn’t look familiar to me, although I suppose it should. I’m referring to a hand-written letter, sent to my Mother from my Dad, one of many that travelled back and forth, across the country during their dating days. You see my mum recently discovered an old suitcase full of old letters she’d kept. She’s since read through them and destroyed most,