Connected

“Now if you’re going to write a thank you note,” Matilda said to Celia, who stared at her with wide eyes and an open mouth, “you need to start with a proper salutation. ‘My dear Mr. Woodsworth,’ is appropriate, child. Capitalize the M but not the D.”

Students were less and less bright these days, Matilda sighed. Back when she’d started teaching for the Open University, they’d been so eager to write. She’d loved those students. But the dim, incurious, and uninspired nincompoops they sent to her these days bored her. Matilda felt no connection to these children, and Celia Johnson was the worst in the pumpkin patch.

She sat there, pen in the right hand, seeming to wait for even more instruction. How clear did Matilda have to make it? She sighed again. Matilda would much rather be at home with a gin and Dubonnet and her crossword puzzle. But no, she had to pay rent to Old Mrs. Stickney, so she had to tutor these pupils at the Open University.

“I don’t see why we need to write these notes anyway. No one does this anymore. My mother just rings up her host after being invited for dinner. Can I go to the bathroom, Miss Dumont?”

“’May’ you go to the bathroom, child, and no. We write thank you notes because it is the correct thing to do, my dear. Whenever someone does you a courtesy such as inviting you into their home or giving a gift, it’s only common courtesy to thank them in written form.”

“That’s such an old, dried up custom,” Celia said. She put her pen on the desk with a bang. “And I have to go to the bathroom. I can’t wait.”

Celia stood and left the room without waiting for Matilda’s leave. Children these days, they had no respect for their elders.