Joie de vivre script and rose bouquet on wrist

The gulls have been at the bins again, and Mrs Pardoe has finally given up on her marrows, so you can stop asking. The real news is the Maud. Dad's old crabber has sat on the slip since March, and yesterday I went down with a tin of sea-green paint and a brush I borrowed from the chapel hall.

I didn't touch the hull, whatever Aunt Hetty says. I painted the wheelhouse door instead, because that's where Gran's words always went. You remember them, the loopy French she wrote on the back of every birthday card: joie de vivre. She said it meant joy in the living of things, and that a woman could keep hold of it even when the catch was poor and the rent was late. I never managed the lettering as neatly as she did, so I've put a small bunch of roses beneath it, the pink ones from her wall that Dad cut back every August while she begged him to leave them alone.

The paint's still tacky. Hetty says the gull that stood on the rail and watched me work is a sign of something good, though I suspect it was only after my sandwich. The roses have dried a shade darker than I wanted, but they look like they mean it.

Come home for the launch. Bring that ridiculous hat and stand where Gran used to, on the wall, where you can see the harbour mouth.

Love, Nell

PS. The Maud's engine still won't start. Bring a spanner.