Breathe script and feather on wrist

The furnace has been temperamental since the frost, so Mr Hollis has put me on the blowpipe for the lamp chimneys and you can stop laughing. The first morning I went red as a beetroot, and the gaffer just tapped the pipe with his knuckle and said, "Breathe, girl. Glass doesn't care how frightened you are. It only cares how steady you are." I thought he was being poetic until I nearly cracked a whole gather in half.

Each breath has to go in slow and come out slower, so the bubble swells without tearing. You learn to count it. Four in, hold, four out. Ted swears by a feather for the bench, a grey goose flight he keeps tucked in his apron, and he flicks it across the marver to test the heat before he touches anything. He says the feather tells you the truth faster than any thermometer, because it shivers when the air wobbles.

Last Thursday I finally got a clean bulb, thin as a blown egg and clear as the canal in June. I held it up to the window and the light came through it as if it had been waiting. I laughed so hard I nearly dropped it. Ted just nodded and handed me the feather to keep.

I've got it pinned above my bed now, next to your postcard of the seaside. Come up at Easter and I'll show you how to breathe properly, though I suspect you'll still go red.

Love, Bea