Believe in yourself script on an ankle

The lane was iced over again this morning, so the milk lorry didn't come, and I had to carry the churns down myself with your father swearing at the gate behind me. I'm telling you this because you'll want to know everything that goes wrong here while you're off in London being clever in your new coat. The hens have stopped laying except for the speckled one, who lays out in the hay barn to spite us.

Your mother's old writing desk is still under the window in the back room. I shifted it last week to get at the damp patch and found the letter you wrote at nine, the one about wanting to be a vet and wanting Bramble to come with you. You had underlined "believe" three times, like a proper schoolteacher. I've kept it in the drawer with the seed packets. Don't ask me why. I'm an old woman and I keep things.

Anyway, the reason I'm writing with the good pen is this. You rang on Sunday and said the interview had gone badly and you'd been sat on the Tube crying. Listen to me. Nobody who cries on the Tube has given up. Ring them tomorrow, ask for another go, and say it plainly. Your handwriting goes all loopy when you're nervous, so write your notes out slowly and read them aloud at the sink, the way you used to recite your times tables while shelling peas.

Bramble sends her love, which means she is asleep on your old coat by the range. The frost has put ferns on the kitchen window. I've left a gap in them for you to look through when you come home at Easter.

Love, Gran