Dandelion seed head on a forearm

The big top came down in Shrewsbury on Tuesday, and the canvas is folded in the back of Mr Pellow's lorry now, smelling of diesel and wet sawdust. Nobody bought a ticket for the last show. We had eleven people in the stands, two of them asleep, and Gideon still did the thing with the hoops because he said the empty seats deserved a proper bow.

I've been sorting the props since. Under the trapeze rigging I found the box of dandelion clocks Ruth made for the children's matinee, the ones she bent from wire so they would hold their shape. Forty of them, every seed set out fine and dark like a little sun. She used to sit on the step of the caravan blowing them off, one after another, and the wishes would scatter over the car park. She said a wish nobody hears is still a wish, only a slower one.

I'm keeping the stem of the last one in my coat pocket. It's the only thing I've taken from the wagons that isn't on the inventory. Tomorrow I catch the early train to Hull, where Ruth says there's a laundry job for anyone who can fold a sheet into thirds without looking. Come and meet me off it if you can. Bring a sandwich, the buffet car is a robbery.

Love, Edie