Paper plane tattoos on the wrist

The second fryer has been playing up since Tuesday, so the chips have been coming out of the pan looking like they've had a row with it. Tonight the swell came up off Harwich and every pan on the rail slid a foot to starboard. I caught the ticket rail with my elbow and sent a tray of bread rolls into the scullery. I'm writing this on the back of a stack of order slips, which is why it looks like a cipher. The late sitting doesn't start for an hour, so I've got time.

Remember Dad's method? He'd fold a page from the Radio Times into a plane with seven creases and launch it off the pier at Walton. Yours always dived straight into the sea. Mine always swung left into the lifebelts. I've worked out the trick is the nose, not the folds. Make it sharp enough and it will hold its line even in a crosswind.

So I made one for the pass hatch tonight, out of your last letter. Don't panic, I kept the important bits, the bit about the lad from the bakery and the bit about Mum's knee. It sailed clean through the steam, skimmed the edge of the bread bin, and dropped onto the purser's clipboard. He asked if I'd been messing about with the tickets. I said a gull was involved, and he didn't argue, which tells you how the crossing is going.

Come down to the quay on Saturday when we dock. I'll be the one at the rail with a plane in each hand, pretending not to look for you. Tell Mum I'm eating properly.

Love, Jo