Basset hound beside a pedestal fan on the back

The fan came back from the church hall on Tuesday, which is more than the church hall ever promised. Your grandad set it up on the landing and Mr Pilling has not left its side since. He sits at the exact distance where the breeze lifts those ears of his, looking like a retired barrister being cross-examined by the weather. Mum says it's the only thing in the house that has stayed cool since the bank holiday.

I should say the fan was never really ours to borrow. It belongs to Mrs Abernathy, who runs the Thursday dance class in the hall, and she came round on Wednesday asking for it back with the face she keeps for the vicar. I told her Pilling had a chest, which is only true in the sense that he has a chest. She let it go on condition I return it by Sunday with the grille cleaned. I did the grille with a toothbrush and most of a tin of Brasso. I think I've ruined it, but Pilling doesn't care.

Your mother rang from Leeds to ask whether we were managing. I said we were managing better than the tea urn. She laughed, which she hasn't done since March, so I'm writing to tell you that, because you'll want to know.

Come down when you can. Bring the good biscuits, not the cheap ones. Pilling will want to meet you, and I'd like to see you sit beside him without being told to shift up.

Love, Nan