I don’t have a particularly big relationship with letterboxes. At the office, my assistant Alex does a daily edit of the bundle that thumps down daily at around 9.30am. After about an hour, I’m left with a few letters to read, a couple of magazines to add to the pile (to be read during a quiet moment but not urgent), a couple to go into the tote bag (for quiet, bedtime reading) and some that will be devoured as soon as I’ve done my own edit of the post.

There are always a couple of letters marked “private and confidential” and those tend to be a mix of thank-you notes, story proposals from old colonels now retired to Devon and the odd, and I do mean odd, prison inmate that’s either a fan of this particular part of the FT or of Monocle.

At home in London I rarely see the post as mostly everything is directed to the office but, since I’ve been recovering from last week’s knee operation in St Moritz (my real home), I’ve started to wait for the Swiss postman to show up and fill all the neat, perfectly lettered aluminium postboxes that line the entrance to my building.

Several weeks ago one of our fashion editors in Tokyo mentioned that he’d done some freelance work for a Japanese women’s magazine that was launching a men’s edition. Already a fan of the women’s magazine, which has undergone a complete turnround under its new editor and a 200 per cent sales increase, I was keen to see the new baby brother.

I alerted my colleagues in Tokyo and London via e-mail that I was keen to get hold of an advance copy of this new beast. The London office got hold of one and reported: “They really, really get what’s needed in magazines right now. You’re going to love it.”

In hindsight, I’d put too much faith in the powers of Britain’s Royal Mail but I convinced myself it would show up at some point on Saturday, either by regular or special delivery. Nothing!

With no deliveries on Sunday, I got a very early call from FedEx on Monday asking what time I’d be around. The company didn’t seem very interested in my physiotherapy schedule so I told them to leave it with the porter or just to lean it against my door.

I had to figure out how to keep myself busy for the next few hours. Physio would only eat up an hour. A quick trip to the local branch of Co-op for the papers and essentials would take another 15 minutes and then what?

When I returned from my errands, my electronic letterbox was filling up with various reports that Condé Nast was closing more magazines. Gourmet was going along with Cookie and a couple of others. While I sifted through the views and analysis on all this, the buzzer sounded.

I shuffled to the door and the FedEx lady was standing with pen at the ready and holding two boxes – one was big and one was a large envelope. Knowing what was in the envelope, I tackled the box first and was surprised to find a microphone and a very elaborate set of gear for my own mini-karaoke system. The card explained that it was the perfect gift for keeping occupied in the mountains and also for making friends with Swiss neighbours. It was from Emilia de Poret and her husband Amaury – she being a talented Swedish pop singer and a new karaoke soulmate.

Before turning my attention to the envelope, I fixed myself a coffee and then tore into the package. As my e-mail chimed in the background, it made me wonder if there is a digital media equivalent of the whole experience: this funny foreplay that one can have with some pulped trees, glue and ink – the ritual of waiting for a prized magazine or book and the ceremony of regarding a front cover? And then that tentative first flip through the pages to tempt the eye. Then, with your appetite whetted, you close it, so that it can be savoured later when you’re properly settled. I couldn’t think of a new media equivalent. I’ve rarely been that excited about a website launch, never been that filled with anticipation to see something on YouTube. The only thing I could come up with was some excitement about seeing the most recent Jason Bourne film.

Eventually, I poured myself a small glass of wine, switched on the bedside light and settled in with this magazine. The cover was warm, welcoming and beautifully lit. The magazine was slightly oversized and stapled with an interesting binding technique that has allowed the publisher to incorporate a variety of different papers. It smelled woody and felt substantial to the touch. It was everything that so many magazines (poor Gourmet and Cookie included) are not: it was both a commercial and editorial piece of craft, as opposed to most magazines today, which have ceased to be a proper celebration of the medium they represent and are instead little more than brochures for their lossmaking web editions.

Some of you will recognise the magazine I am talking about, the rest will have to wait for next week’s big reveal.

Tyler Brûlé is editor-in-chief of Monocle
tyler.brule@ft.com
More columns at www.ft.com/brule