Ganesha tattoo in bold black linework

The canvas went in Carlisle on Tuesday, the third time this season the wind has had the big top off its poles, and Mr Varley stood in the mud with his hat in his hands and said nothing at all, which is worse than shouting. We have eleven weeks of bookings left on paper and four on the ground. I am writing from the back of the prop wagon because the generator is down again, and the light is good here, if you can call a bulb on a cable good.

Ardhi is the one I keep thinking about. You remember her, the grey cow with the cracked left ear who used to lift a child onto her head for a penny and a bow. She is not young now, and the vet from Penrith says her feet are going. Last night I sat with her in the pen, picking old hay out of her tail with my fingers, and I found myself saying the little prayer Dad taught us, the one to the elephant-headed god who clears the path. I felt foolish and kept on anyway. Dad always said Ganesha takes away the obstacles before a journey. We have had nothing but obstacles since the spring.

Varley wants to sell her to a park in Wales. He says it is the only money left. I have not told him what I think, but I will tell you: if it comes to it, I will walk her there myself and not let some stranger pull her along on a rope.

Write back. Tell me the boys are well. Tell me the kettle still works in Leeds.

Your loving brother, Tom