ONE of the greatest joys of getting older is revisiting things you did when you were younger that are even better now with age.

Like talking to your mates’ parents about life. Massive drag when you were young, but now you nod along like the Churchill dog.

“I know, Valerie, I get really narked when the bin men just leave my food waste bin lying on its side like they don’t even care too. I know. I know, Val. You don’t have to tell me – I know.”

Or lying on grass – an ordinary act for kids pooped from running through the ambrosial fields of their youth, but for an adult it is a prostrate way of sticking it to the man.

“Yeah, that’s right. There’s no grass in the office, so here I am, lying on grass outside the office. You won’t shackle my spirit, the man.”

Or flicking a V sign at a rude kid in the street. Unremarkable when you’re the same age as them, but when you’re 35, it’s dead exhilarating.

Plus you are providing a service. You are keeping those precocious twits on their toes. “Mummy, why is that lady swearing at me?”, “Because you’re young, dear – and that’s enough sometimes. Also, you did just pick your nose and eat it. Stop it. Or I’ll have you adopted.”

(Exceptions to the “things being better when you’re older” rule are: gnawing raw Oxo cubes, and weeing by the side of the road when things gets desperate. Not the same. Avoid.)

This week I added another thing to my list of things I did as a kid but now lovemore as an adult. Sending and receiving handwritten letters.

When they come out of the blue, they can really knock your socks off.

I’d been chatting to a friend on the ol’ Facebook. Nattering about books and writing and how sometimes they are the best things and sometimes they are the worst things.

She’s an awesome comedian who’s already written two books, so I had nothing to offer but the odd “go gettum, tiger” type sentiment.

When we said goodbye I thought I had probably been the exact opposite of useful.

But a few days later I received a floral envelope in the post. I thought “those pizza dudes are getting very metrosexual”, and then I opened it and saw my friend’s name written at the top of the page above her address.

She had included her middle name, and had written my name in big swirly letters with an exclamation mark. It was like getting banged in the heart by the Nineties.

The letter comprised funny charming things, lots of underlinings and capitals for dramatic effect, and ended with a thank you. And it made me so happy.

I was routinely obsessed with writing letters to my friends while growing up. I had pen pals dotted around the country that I’d met on holidays, and as if that wasn’t enough correspondence to be tending to, my school friends and I were caught in an infinite loop of notes.

We didn’t have texts or emails. We had paper and pens. And the best letters were the ones you had to wait for. We didn’t have the internet or mobile networks, we had the Royal Mail.

This unexpected letter from my friend was the loveliest reminder of something I used to love, but brought it right up to date.

I wrote back in coloured pens and she wrote back again, including a page ripped out of a magazine of some sheep “really looking” that made me guffaw.

Two women in their mid-thirties, talking about things they love – big girl stuff, reallife stuff, books and publishers and birthdays and grief and love and dogs, but adding really cool stickers to the envelope.