Is it just ME?

Or are old-fashioned address books just heaven?

Precious friendships deserve a proper archive. A battered address book is a record of a life well-lived

THIS week I visited a friend who works in publishing and found her poring over a yellowing, hand-written book. Must be a famous author’s manuscript, I thought.

But no, it was the family address book inherited from her late father. As we gazed at 60 years of entries, with addresses neatly crossed out or updated when people moved house, we grew quite tearful.

‘The whole history of our family is here,’ she said. ‘There’s my old student address from 1980 and our first married home.’

To our shame, we realised we have no modern equivalent. When we want to send cards, or a thankyou note, we have to track down addresses by scrolling through stray texts or emails, or several years of Facebook messages.

We promise we’ll write everything down in a safe place, but, of course, we never do. In our high-tech lives, the address book, like the photo album, seems like a relic from a bygone era. But, actually, these paper networks are vital.

I don’t want to sound morbid, but if something happened to me, I’d want my loved ones to know who to contact, with all the phone numbers in one place. I don’t want them to spend days going through thousands of emails, trying to identify everyone.

So, finally, I have bought myself a lovely vintage address book with entries arranged alphabetically, and I am going to take the time to write down all my contacts by hand.

No doubt I’ll curse at how long it takes. But friendships deserve a proper archive. A battered address book is a record of a life well-lived.