The writer doesn't like sending postcards at all.Last summer,he was going on a trip in Italy in which he visited lots of places.At that time,he was always thinking the postcards,because he had no cards sent to his friends.Even a waiter lent him a book one day when he visited the garden,he couldn't consentrate his efforts on reading .
AS the hours go by,the holiday went to the end,but he still didn't send any cards.However,he made a big discision.He got up early and bought thirty-seven cards.He spend the whole day in the room ,but he didn't write a sigle card at all.
What a strange man he is