One of the great things about living in Europe next year? Being able to buy a ticket to see Miss Spears perform in London in June. It should be spectacular.

Ever since I first stumbled across Miss Manners’ Guide for the Turn-Of-The-Millennium at the Australian National University Library as an undergrad, I coveted a stationery wardrobe. It is not, as Judith Martin remarks, dresses that don’t “capriciously change their fit through the years” (that, of course, would be a stationary wardrobe). It is a collection of writing paper for all occasions. For most of my years here in Seattle I have used Crane and Co to feed my stationery desires. They are American company who make their products from cotton, rather than wood pulp, and they supply paper for US bank notes and Tiffany & Co. Their envelopes are lined with bright colours and they carry many whimsical designs. However, this time I was looking for something a little more regal.

Our trip to London provided the incentive to first see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, and then visit the stationers that supply my Queen with her writing paper – Smythson of Bond Street. First established in 1887, they produce luxurious paper and leather goods. They were granted the Royal Warrant to Her Majesty the Queen in 1964, to HRH The Prince of Wales in 1980, and HRH The Duke of Edinburgh in 2002. When I visited the museum at the back of their flagship store on New Bond Street, I was able to see samples of this stationery, as well as that of the Maharajah (crests inlaid with mother of pearl) and Princess Diana (red and cream).

Smythson’s writing paper is available in a wide variety of colours and weights, ranging from Mayfair Smooth White to their distinctive Nile Blue. The Park Avenue Pink was premiered at the launch of their New York store, and Glen Clova green was created for the Queen Mother.  A gentleman at the store gave me a sample pack of their papers and cards to take home and ponder. I selected some correspondence cards for various occasions, writing paper in Cream Wove with a classic watermark, as well as a silver pencil with retractable lead. They packed it all up in those delightful blue boxes pictured at the top of this page.

Because Adrian knows me so well, and also because I am spoilt, on our anniversary he presented me with the pièce de résistance of my stationery wardrobe – my very own social card. The text engraved in Saint Germain script on a copper die, hand embossed in dark purple ink on Mayfair Smooth White board. A proper social card generally only contains the name, not the address or the telephone number. If more information is required, it is hand-written on the back. One of my favourite aspects of leaving a social card is that folding each particular corner forward carries its own specific message:

Turning the lower left corner indeed means that you are taking leave. When everyone knew this, and Pour prendre conge’ was as generally understood among Americans as RSVP is now, “P.p.c.” was sometimes also written on the lower left corner.

The gentleman was congratulating you on your new job. The upper right-hand corner is “P.f.,” for Pour fe’liciter. However, these abbreviations, if written, are always in the lower left. There is also “P.c.,” Pour condoler, for sympathy calls, for which the lower right corner is turned; and “P.r.,” Pour remercier, to thank, for example after being entertained at dinner the night before.

If the right corner is turned toward the face of the card, it means the card bearer has been there in person. However, that may also be expressed by turning the upper left corner, which means visite.