Camera, film strip and roses design

You will not believe what Dad left in the potting shed. I went out for the hose on Tuesday and found the old Nikon wedged behind the bags of grit, its strap gone stiff as a bootlace, and a canister of film still rattling inside when I shook it. Twelve frames, he'd written on the tape in his capitals, ROSES, LAST ONE FOR THE FENCE. We have spent a fortnight arguing over whether to get it developed, and I have decided you should be the one to say yes, because you always did the sensible things with your hands while I dithered.

The garden is worse than we left it. The Albertine has gone up the wall as if it means to climb out of the county, and the greenfly on the Peace bush could start a religion. I cut back what I could on Saturday and took the lens cap off the camera just to feel the weight of it. The shutter still clacks. Nothing else in this house has made that sound since Mum.

I took the film to Harrow Lane Photo on Thursday. The man behind the counter held the canister up to the window like a jeweller checking a stone, then asked whether I wanted prints or a scan. I said prints. He said nobody wants prints any more, and I told him that was exactly why.

Collect them Friday with me. I think the first frame is the back door, taken from the path, with the roses leaning over the step. The rest I have not yet been brave enough to look at.

Love, Jo