Brush stroke swirl with purple splatter on forearm

The ink man in Dalston swore the lilac would sit on top of the black like frost on a gate, and I told him I didn't care about frost, I cared that the thing looked like it had been flicked from a loaded brush in one go. He laughed and said that was the whole trick, one go, no second thoughts. So I've got my one go on my forearm now, and you're the only person I can tell that it was your father's old calligraphy brush I was thinking of the whole time.

You'll remember the summer we tried to teach ourselves characters from the back of that Chinese primer, sitting on the potting shed step while the runner beans climbed their strings. Your sevens looked like hooks. Mine leaned over like they were tired. Mum came out with the watering can and said we were making the garden look untidy, and then she stood there reading over our shoulders for ten minutes without saying anything.

The two big strokes are the ones that matter. The first sweeps up and then folds back on itself, and the second curls under it like a wave going out. Where the purple flicks off them, I've asked the artist to let it run down towards the wrist the way ink ran off the end of Dad's brush when he pressed too hard. He said it would look messy. I said messy was the point.

It stung less than I expected, and it's already settling into a soft grey at the edges. Come and see it on Sunday. Bring the primer. We can finally finish that seventh.