Mandala flower tattoo on forearm

The rosette is finished, though not how Mr Varley wanted. He asked for a sun over the centre pole, something you could read from the back row, and I gave him a flower instead, the way you'd draw one on a plate: a ring of petals, a second ring cut into them, then a star with a dot in its heart. The fern-fronds run out to the edge of the canvas where the lamps hang. I stippled the shadows between the petals with a fine nib, dot after dot, because the lamplight goes soft there and I wanted the petals to look as though they were thinking about opening.

Forty-one days it took, up a ladder in the dark hours before the matinee. The big top has a split along the north seam now, so the rain comes through in a thin line onto the sawdust. Varley says we can't buy new canvas until the spring bookings come in, and the spring bookings are a rumour the wagons keep repeating. The clowns have started sleeping in the horse lorry because it's warmer than the caravans, and nobody minds the smell of liniment anymore.

On the last night I climbed up with the spirit lamp and a tin of black, meaning to pick out the dot at the very centre. Something made me stop. Seen from the ring floor, the whole design turns into a clock face with no hands, and the empty space in its middle is exactly the width of the trapeze the Dorrington girl hangs from. I left it blank. If anyone asks, tell them the flower is still opening.