By Emma Clayton

ASK anyone under the age of 30 what SWALK means and the likely response will be a blank stare.

The postal acronym originated on soldiers' letters during the Second World War, and it stuck around a while.

But the code for "sealed with a loving kiss" is now long gone, along with TTFN and TLND (anyone who scrawled the latter on their pencil case under their own name and that of an early sweetheart/fave pop star/geography teacher crush entwined in a love heart, will know what it means).

Nobody says "SWALK" anymore because nobody writes letters anymore. When was the last time you received one that wasn't from your bank or electricity supplier?

Christmas is a time for postal correspondence, but I doubt there'll be many letters enclosed in cards this year. And I don't count those excruciating "what a marvellous year we've had" round robin letters; photocopied and sent en masse, with all the charm of a rancid dishcloth.

There's something joyful about a handwritten letter that someone has put time and thought into. I wrote letters from the age of 11, when I got my first penfriend. At college I wrote to my mum and gran, and in the holidays my friends and I, scattered across the country, exchanged letters. Before texting and emails, when long distance 'phone calls were expensive, this was the only way of keeping in touch.

I'd get stationery sets for Christmas, and would often insert photos or cuttings into envelopes along with letters. And when a letter landed on the mat, I could tell from the handwriting who it was from before I'd opened it.

A friend showed me a letter she'd kept that I sent her 25 years ago - it was largely about a job interview in High Wycombe. I knew how to rock 'n' roll back then.

York Press:

Sealed with a loving kiss... but not any more, sadly

With the exception of an aunt in Brighton, who updates me her news in witty letters, I don't know anyone who sends handwritten mail these days.

So when I jokingly suggested to my partner, who lives 200 miles away, that he could write me a letter "like in the olden days", I didn't expect much enthusiasm. But last week I came home to a lovely three-page letter from him which I tore open like a giddy schoolgirl.

To keep the correspondence going, I decided to buy him some nice stationery for Christmas. When I couldn't find any in the store, I asked an assistant, aged about 22, who said: "I don't know what you mean". I explained about notepaper and envelopes and he shrugged and said: "If it's not out here we don't have it".

He's clearly never written a letter in his life and, in this age of over communication, he probably never will. And he'll miss out on the simple pleasure of reading and re-reading a crumpled piece of writing paper that is SWALK.