Cactus and succulent tattoos on legs

The parcel you sent arrived on Tuesday with the stamps soaked through and one of the echeveria leaves snapped off in transit, so I've potted the rosette on its own in the chipped blue dish from Grandad's shed. It's already rooting at the cut end. Don't let anyone tell you succulents are hard. They just want you to leave them alone for a fortnight and then forgive you for it.

The saguaro cutting you wanted is a different matter. Mr Okafor at the garden centre on Calle Sur says they grow about a centimetre a year in the first decade, so you'll need patience, which I know you have none of. He let me take a look at the old ones behind the fence where the road bends. Some have arms that go up like they're flagging down a bus, and one had a crow's nest with a fledgling in it, yellow beak open, shouting at the sky.

I drove out on Sunday with the windows down and the radio off. The dust gets into the seams of the car and never leaves. I sat by the big one for an hour and tried to work out how a thing that thick can hold so much water and still look like it's about to topple over. Nobody had an answer. A dog came sniffing, then lost interest and left.

Keep the dish on the sill that gets the morning light, not the one that cooks. And send me a photo of the new flat when you have one. I'm not cross about the ring. I'm only tired of being the one who remembers the bins.

Love, Mags