Going to the dogs

Eureka, I thought, when at the age of 14 I opened a drawer in the geography classroom of my old school and found it crammed with old postcards, which were earmarked to be cut up, drawn on or stuck into books by my fellow classmates. Curiosity aroused, I then peeked into the drawer above it and the one below it, finding both were similarly wedged with postcards that were crying out to be liberated by someone who might give them the care and attention they deserved. Wham bam, thank you school mam for an instant collection.

Today, several hundred postcards enjoy a life of freedom, living out their days in a few old shoeboxes that are kept on the top shelf of a BILLY bookcase in my office. Although most of these derive from my opportunistic find as a teenager, I had my first flirtation with collecting postcards as a young child and still have many from that time, including a postcard of Basil Brush (pictured above), which was sent to me by Nan and Grandad Cox when I was five.

Although not a deltidologist (the highfalutin’ term for a serious postcard collector), I do enjoy looking at them occasionally and think these little rectangles of cardboard are a great example of photographic social history. Honestly. Among my favourites are a handful of Paxton’s Crystal Palace, English seaside scenes from the 1950s, along with a big wad of American postcards from the 1940s to the late 60s. Others worth a mention are a series of 9 in a lovely little wallet that were put together to promote the Pixies Doolittle album and a batch from the Britpop era used to advertise tours, singles and album releases by the likes of Oasis, Sleeper and Suede.