Things I have found recently:
A card bought for a friend's wedding this summer (Hope you had a good day Hon!)
A birthday card written, addressed and stamped but not posted.
An unwrapped baby dress and unwritten new baby card. The child is now at school.
A half finished baby jumper, still on the knitting needles. The baby is 19 years old now.
I swear, I could open a shop with the number of pristine cards, wrapping paper, gift bows and sundries I find in my house. I always MEAN well. I'm organised enough to actually go out and buy the card, showing that I am at least thinking of you, and even write the thing out, but actually walking the 30 yards from my front door to the nearest post-box? Yeah.
I have to admit to stonking black lies now and again... "That damn Post Office must have lost it! Again!" Poor postie, he always gets the blame. All while frantically pulling on shoes and flying out the door to post my niece's card two days late. "It got there a week later? How bizarre! No idea what happened there. Damn Royal Mail!"
My epitaph will be "She meant well..." (with a huge I TOLD YOU I WAS ILL! underneath it). The road to Hell isn't paved with good intentions, but littered with unposted cards.