Dialogue: Thanks a lot for the thanks

I love mail. No double entendre intended, but I do. Few things get me going quite as much in the morning as trotting down to the letterbox to see what joys await me.

Sometimes the thrill can be outweighed by the sting of bills or something ominous from the Department of Corrections.

But an exotic envelope from foreign parts or something that is clearly personal will put a spring in my stride every time.

Yesterday, I got such a nice surprise when I went and visited the box. In among the junk mail - and the ants who have invaded - was a letter in a pale blue envelope. I had no idea who had sent it so I took it inside to speculate.

My interest had been piqued. It was postmarked Auckland. I gave it a tentative sniff. Did I detect the faintest hint of a scent?

Neat, round letters with flourishes on the Es. I didn't recognise the hand.

Unable to contain myself any longer, I had to open it and end the suspense.

I ripped into it as delicately as enthusiasm would allow - and it was exciting and lovely. And completely unexpected.

You see, a few weekends ago I'd had 20 or 30 people over for dinner. I lost count around 10 o'clock.

Crazy, I know, but I do quite like entertaining, even though the dishes seemed to take a week to get through.

The whole evening was a considerable success as old friends were reacquainted and new ones were made.

There was even a bit of hanky-panky from one set of new friends in the back of a cab, but that's a completely different story.

Back to the letter. It was from Sara, who had written me a thank-you note.

I've not been so tickled in ages. She didn't have to do it. Etiquette does say one should, but nowadays people hardly ever do.

I write them only if I'm really moved to, or if news that I haven't relayed will get back to my parents.

Duty is a very strong motivation with regards to courtesy, which is probably why I was so touched by one person's gesture of gratitude.

The dinner had been a big night for me. I never sat down once and swore if I asked one more person if they'd like another drink I'd scream.

What a stupid question. Of course everyone wanted another drink. Still, I kept asking and the bubbles kept flowing, and I'll probably be finding corks behind the sofa next year.

But I get it now. I understand why my father will talk at great length about how so and so never wrote back after receiving the mohair travel rug as a wedding present. Or how some young cousins in England might not be so lucky in Christmases future if they don't start to write off with their thanks.

My folks are big on manners and have tried to instil them in their children. Boxing Day was always marred by having to fill the very letter-writing paraphernalia some kindly aunt gave me with appropriate words of gratitude.

But how those letters must have made those old ducks glow - made their day for just the price of a stamp.

All that shopping was not in vain. The present reached its recipient and was found to be utterly delightful, the very thing the recipient wanted above all else.

In order to ensure a few past boyfriends maintained favour with my parents, I have even suggested that it might be best for all concerned if they wrote a little note for gifts given.

I don't think that's cheating - you do have to give a potential son-in-law every possible chance.

And, while I think about it, whatever happened to standing up when someone enters a room or opening doors for people?

I like the odd door to be held open for me and I'm no stranger to opening them for others. A little nod and a modestly mouthed "thank you" is all that's required in return.

What's wrong with a mark of respect here and there?

I suppose that this attitude will have me labelled old-fashioned, but I don't really know if I care.

I would rather be known for being overly solicitous than as someone who knows no respect.

Not that I'm saintly all of the time, but it is worth it sometimes to make an effort and express gratitude.

Who knows, it might spread. Courtesy is said to be contagious.