Om symbol and scrollwork on a forearm

The ceiling of the Palais is finished, though Mrs Okafor says I have painted the vines too fast and they look like they were blown in by a gale. Let them. I made them climb the way your mother's runner beans climbed the back wall, every tendril reaching for the one bit of light. Over the stage I put the Om in black lacquer, since Mr Patel wanted something that would hold still while the band played everything else. It took me three evenings to get the curl of the top stroke right. My hand kept wanting to close it into a question.

Under the Om, where the chandelier chain goes up, I finished the border the way the old caterers edged their tablecloths, all little loops and scallops, stippled with a bristle brush so it looks like frost on a window. Nobody will notice it from the floor. That's the point, Mr Patel says. The dancers look up for a minute, then they look at each other, and that is what they came for.

The first dance is Saturday. I have been told to stay out of the way, so I will sit at the back with a bottle of ginger beer and watch the lamps swing. Do not fret about the rent. The money from the shop sign covers it, and the lacquer was cheaper than I feared.

Write when you get to Hull. Tell me whether the trains there still have the good seats with the brass ashtrays.

Your loving aunt, Win