Hotmail is 25 next month. I know, I can’t believe I’m that old either. My very first ‘ping’ of a yellow envelope in the bottom right-hand corner of the monitor was so exciting. I must be important to receive an electronic letter to rebeccachippindale@hotmail.com, I thought. I can’t imagine how we functioned beforehand. What did we do? Fax? Landline? Type letters with a carbon copy?  

The first night I met my husband on a sweaty dancefloor in the Hippodrome, I tried to impress him with a modern suggestion of swapping email addresses rather than phone numbers. I had no idea he was a computer geek who’d been all over this trend for years. He even had a mobile brick. It wasn’t until much later in the relationship that he admitted he’d originally thought Hotmail was a sexy newsletter aimed at lads with lingerie ads. 

It took my late father a while to fathom this new-fangled form of correspondence. I could spot his missives in my inbox a mile off. Everything was in caps and the title never changed – Hi Chip. Three lines was the most you got due to him pecking the keyboard with two index fingers. At least he got straight to the point though; The vet found a lump. I bought a new flunky lawnmower. Mum wants to know when you’re coming to sort out the attic.  

I once got caught out with a forwarding blunder after a bitchfest with colleagues about Narky Knickers in the office. I wasn’t the only one who thought she’d benefit from a roll-on, but my comment was at the top of the thread, so I copped for both barrels. My neck’s burning with shame recalling it. There was no denying what I’d said. I’ve a sneaky suspicion all my further emails were sent straight to trash.  

There was a period in the early 2000s when I found myself between jobs and boyfriends. A true Bridget Jones scenario of moving back home with a maxed-out Visa card and minimal prospects. In desperation, I de-camped to Birmingham for a freelance job, where on St Valentine’s night, I stumbled into a Cybercafé after a lonely glass of Hock.  

I paid my £1-per-half-hour, pulled up a plastic chair and logged on. I spewed out four pages to my ex, explaining away my flawed and irrational motives for dumping him whilst highlighting the many incentives for giving me a second chance. It was a Saturday night. He wasn’t going to receive this until Monday morning at work. Before I left, I paid an extra 75p for a print-out, just in case the specifics seemed hazy in the cold light of day. 

Monday dragged. When I hadn’t heard anything by mid-afternoon, I asked Jeeves how long it took for an email to travel. Then ‘ping’, an envelope. ‘Aye, go on then’, he replied. Years later I upgraded my account with a new provider and a snappier surname: beckybond72@outlook.com.