Orchid inside a geometric triangle on a forearm

The market in Ludlow has gone to ruin since the council moved the fish stalls under the arches, and I'm writing this from the back of Halloran's van with the wipers squeaking and the rain coming sideways off the Corve. You'll laugh, but I bought an orchid off a boy with a cardboard box of them, half of them already bruised from the wet. He wanted a pound. I gave him two because the one with the cracked lip reminded me of your mother's glasses, the ones she wore to read the Telegraph at the kitchen table.

I've put it in the window of the flat above the bakery. It sulks there, the way you'd expect from a thing that costs more to keep alive than it's worth. Mr Adeyemi downstairs says orchids only bloom when they're left alone and ignored, which I took as a personal remark, though he meant it kindly. I told him I'd been ignored plenty, thanks, and he gave me that look over his spectacles that he saves for pastry that won't rise.

The triangle I'm less sure about. The lad at the stall said he'd seen a girl in the Cross Keys with a tattoo of one inside a frame like that, and the frame stayed open on one side so the flower could walk out of it if it chose. I thought that was a load of nonsense until I stood in the rain and realised the same thing had happened to me, the day I left Shrewsbury without shutting the door properly.

Ring me when the post comes. I want to know if the old chair is still in the hall, and whether you ever forgave me for the Christmas tree.

Love, Jo