Fine line arrow tattoo on a finger

The Eastbourne order came back with a note from Mr Ferrers saying the shafts sit too heavy in the hand. He is right, though he did not say it kindly. I have been sanding the last dozen since Tuesday and have stopped minding the dust in my hair. You will find the spokeshave hanging on the wrong hook by the stove. I have forgiven you for that already, but not for leaving the glue pot open overnight.

The hawthorn you brought back from the hedge by the level crossing is drying on the sill. I told you it was too green to use, and it is, but the sprig with the little branching twigs is worth keeping for the pattern alone. Look how it forks and forks again, each fork a shade thinner than the last, the way your grandmother cut her cane for the bow. She pinned a drawing of one above the bench when I was your age and said a fletcher ought to see how a thing grows before she asks it to fly.

The Halloran Brothers' big top came down last week in a field outside Ely. The ponies went to a farmer near Soham and the clown who used to juggle knives is driving a removals van now. Their archer, Juno, came in on Thursday for a bundle of goose wing and sat on the upturned crate for an hour without buying anything. She turned a shaft over and over in her fingers, tracing the grain with her thumb, and asked whether a straight line was still worth paying for when nobody was watching. I told her the line was for the arrow, not the crowd.

Bring the spokeshave back to its hook when you come in on Monday. Keep the shafts straight, and keep a sprig of that hawthorn for yourself, in case you forget what a good fork looks like. Yours, Ada