Vacating my workplace office fourteen years ago, I stripped the place like that gang of women descending on Madam Hortense’s rooms in ‘Zorba the Greek’.

The only things left — rather like poor Madam Hortense herself, lying there still warm — were the desk, the desk chair, and the computer.

As part of our ongoing search to lighten our load, I discovered in a closet the bulletin board which I had spirited away, the push-pinned items on it still in place.  I’ve reassembled on the scanner the mosaic of postcards as they once appeared.  (Clickable)

Clockwise from the top left, Lyle Lovett from the cardboard sleeve in which CD’s once came packaged, woman in flowered hat (Henry Clarke), Andy Warhol giving John Lennon a peck on the cheek (Christopher Makos), This Photograph is my Proof (Duane Michals), three monks (Stephane Sednaoui), David Byrne (Robert Maplethorpe), and Dani et son fils, Paris 1944 (Henri Lartigue).

Turning each card over, I discovered that one was from a gentleman ‘who wasn’t even my type’ upon whom I expended prodigious emotion eons ago.  I enjoyed seeing his handwriting again.

Speaking of which, I wish I could claim good penmanship.  I’m full of envy when comes the closeup in movies of a pen nib working away with not even gorgeous, just serviceable handwriting.

The single good thing about mine is that it is unforgeable.  Yippee.