Dripping diamond on a forearm

The lift in Harcourt House has been out since Tuesday, so I've been walking the fourteen floors with the glass rack on my back like a sandwich board. Your grandad would have laughed at that. He always said the trick to a tower block was to keep your knees and your temper, and he never managed the second one.

I found his cutter in the bottom of the van, wrapped in an old copy of the Evening Standard. Diamond-tipped, the steel gone dull, but the little stone at the point still caught the landing light. Somebody, probably Dad, had left the oil bottle uncapped, and the tool was crusted black along one side. When I wiped it on my overall, the oil ran down the handle in thin threads and dripped onto the lino. Mrs Okafor on eleven says it looks like the building is bleeding ink.

On the ninth floor Mr Abbott's kitchen window had a crack running corner to corner. I scored it with the cutter, one clean line, then tapped along the score until the pane parted exactly where I'd marked it. Your grandad always said a good cut should show you the facets of the glass, every edge a little window onto the light. The drip from the cutter landed on my boot and I left it there.

Abbott asked what he owed me. I said nothing, that I'd come back and fix the lift when the parts arrived. He stood in his doorway with his hand on the frame and said he'd like that. Tell your mum the diamond's still sharp. I'll bring it to the allotment on Sunday, and you can hold the level while I measure the new shed.

Love, Dad