I don't know what was in the air in 1979, but this is the year that nearly everyone I know is turning 30. That means good parties, yes. But it also means the birthday presents have to be unusually good too (translation: unusually expensive). But in the midst of this gift-giving orgy, a dear friend in New Zealand who I've known for nearly 20 years had his big 3-0. And suddenly, buying him 'stuff' seemed a bit glib and meaningless. So instead, I'm giving him my time. Every week of his 30th year, I'm going to write him a letter. Because each letter will be one of a series of 52, I've block-printed the letterheads, then each one can be individually numbered as we count through the year. It's only early days, but so far it's been a really relaxing ritual to get into. A proper Sunday afternoon thing. The process could, however, turn me into a real grandpa who gets impatient when people don't write 'thank-you' slips at Christmas. You have been warned.
And this was 1 of 52. The birthday card. But my carefully crafted lino cut was a bit of a disaster (I didn't mirror it before I cut it out), so I had to improvise. Which, sadly, turned out a bit emo. But it's the thought that counts. Right?
