Letters to you

IRIS walked slowly to the front door of her Victorian villa in Fairley, a sleepy Sussex village. It had begun, she fumed silently – the “invasion” of her home. Of course, she’d been expecting it. Her

MARIE peered out of the front room window, wondering if people would be on time. And not only that – what if nobody showed? She let the net curtain drop, listening to the kettle whistling in the kitch

THERE we go. I’ll print out a couple of photos to pop in with this for Patricia and it will be ready to post.” Sheila slid her letter into the envelope. Ashley, who was lounging on the couch stroking

Our dear mum, Barbara, who is now ninety years old, has been an avid reader of “The People’s Friend” magazine for many years. Her mother, Grace Mackay, also originally was a loyal reader for years. Mu

I WAS lonely. Papa was a preacher and we lived and travelled in a painted wooden wagon, pulled by Jessie, a large and docile shire horse. We had few possessions; there was no room for what Papa called

TOM! What are you doing here?” I stopped gazing at the empty space in the centre of the table, to throw myself into my fiancé’s arms. “You’re not supposed to be here until tonight,” I told him. “I dec