I have a story to tell. It starts here.
Or, perhaps, it starts over there. You know the place. Sure you do. It’s one of your favourite hangouts. They know you by name and know what you like, but they also know you like to surprise them occasionally.
Ringing any bells?
Of course, this place, mine or yours, could be many places. But not any place. Any place might be a nameless multinational. No, that’s not this place. This place has quirks. It has some things not quite right and some things unexpected, but delightful.
This particular place is in a marketplace. They have a wall covered with bibelots, or curios if you prefer.
They reside, unconsidered, in one corner of the cafe. They aren’t important and it’s nothing to write home about, but, and here’s the thing, they include things that you can write home on.
A bibelot can be just about anything, but I feel sure that a postcard is almost always, once written, a bibelot for life.