Carpe diem script on forearm, before and after concealer

You will laugh when you hear what I've done. Mother's letter came on Tuesday asking whether I'd be wearing my good gloves to the Harvest Dinner, and I sat on the back step of the chapel hall and thought, no, I will not. So I walked down to Mr Pargeter's shop on Fish Lane, where he sells the stage paint the Garrick players use, and asked for the shade they call Dove Sand.

You always were the one who read the wrappers, so let me explain about the words first. Three summers ago Ada Lemon, who had a steady hand and a worse temper, pricked carpe diem into my arm with a darning needle and a pot of printer's ink. It took her the whole of a Sunday afternoon. I was so proud I couldn't sleep, and when the redness came up Father found out, and that was the end of Ada's custom in Market Weald.

The letters are still there, of course. They're thin and leaning, the way you liked them, and nothing about them was ever wrong except the timing. Mr Pargeter warned me that paint doesn't last like ink does, so I'd be touching it up every few days, and I told him that suited me fine.

Seize the day, the lettering says. So I did. I dabbed the Dove Sand over the ink with a damp sponge, patient as a pastry cook, and by this morning the words had gone the colour of an old chapel wall. I walked to the Harvest Dinner with my sleeves rolled up. Mother looked, said nothing, and passed me the gravy, which for her is applause. Come at Christmas and I'll show you the trick.

Love, Dora