Rose, banner and skull design

The lorry has been stopped at the barrier since Tuesday, so I have time to write properly and not on the back of a customs form. Mr Abara, the driver, has taught me to play cribbage with spent matchsticks. He says the officers at Halen lose more paperwork than they lose lorries, which I don't believe, but it passes the hours.

Last night a man walked the line of trucks with a tin box of transfers and a little brush. He would paint a design on your hand while you waited, for two euros and a cup of his tea, which was stronger than the coffee. He did me a rose, red as a pillar box, with leaves that looked dipped in a pond, and a gold banner under it lettered LOVE in letters as thick as a tyre track. Beside the banner he put a small white skull, grinning as if it knew the joke. I asked him why the skull. He said the rose has to be reminded it won't last, or it gets lazy about blooming.

I have kept it on for two days now. The officer on the desk this morning looked at my hand, then at the form, then at my hand again, and asked if I was planning to marry a Belgian. I said I was planning to go home. He stamped the paper so hard the desk shook, and the rose on my knuckle went blurry with the sweat of the queue.

I'll wash it off at the first services in Kent, I expect. Tell Mum the lorry is safe, the cargo is cabbages, and I am bringing back a box of the tea. Tell her the skull is only a transfer, which is true, mostly.

Tom