Love you to the moon and back lettering with arrow

The platform clock at Hollin Bridge has been four minutes slow since April, and I have stopped correcting it, because it gives me a little more of you before the 7.42 pulls out. You told me not to write. I am writing on the back of a ticket stub instead, which you will say is cheating.

Mr Abney, the stationmaster, lent me his pencil and a bench by the lamp. He says the moon is already up over the goods yard, a thin paring of it, the sort that looks like someone has dragged a fingernail across the sky. I told him I knew exactly which one he meant. You used to point at it from the kitchen window and say it was a boat you would row out in if the bus fares went up again.

The guard has just walked past twice, shaking his lamp at nobody, so I think they will be calling your carriage soon. Keep the window down. Mind the gap at Carlisle, it has a habit of swallowing gloves. And when you reach your new flat in Glasgow and the moon comes up thin over somebody else's roof, know that it is me saying what I always say, and that I have never once trusted the signal box with the arithmetic. To the moon and back, and then a bit further, which is not a distance anyone has measured.

The train is in. Write when you land.

All my love, Tom