EASTGATE CLOCK, CHESTER

I remember the good old days when a gilt edged knife was required to open the post. A glance at the address—that is, whether it was typed or hand written could generate a frisson of interest, intrigue, or even fear. The contents could be filed carefully in the “I'll think about it” tray for days, if not weeks, generating nothing more than the odd pang of guilt from the occasional ill advised rummage. If tempted to reply, all that was required was a few minutes into the dictaphone and the job was done. …