In our modern era letters have become emails, and the yearly letters I remember my aunt sending from Brazil at Christmas are now supplemented by weekly emails. These letters my aunt sends to my grandmother, mother, uncles and cousins have a metaphysical smell – they reek of oranges and melons and cupuacou and everything my aunt sells in her shop.

Today, her weekly email was on the kitchen table. My father had printed it off, and had left it for me to read. It goes out to all the family. This week, aunt Toula describes watching carnival on TV from Rio, and the harvest from my uncle’s farm, and the sun beating down on the roof of the shop. It is snowing outside, and it’s about freezing, but the email conjured up images to me of the wider world. Although my essay, printed from the same printer just hours earlier, did not smell, reading the email I could detect the faint aroma of oranges and couprasou.