Show girl with top hat on upper arm

The hat finally sits right. Mr Hollis had the wardrobe woman take the lining in at Ipswich, and now it doesn't slide down over my eyebrows when I bow to the back rows. You'd laugh at the state of the rest of me. I have a red jacket with a lace collar that scratches like a Brillo pad, a yellow bow tie Ada sewed on with thread the colour of mustard, and a banner across my shoulders that says SHOW GIRL in letters somebody painted at four in the morning while the rain came through the canvas.

The first night the hat went flying during the rope trick and the whole ring went quiet, and I thought that was the end of me. Then Stanley the strongman picked it up out of the sawdust, dusted it on his trousers and handed it back with a bow of his own, and the crowd cheered like I'd planned it all along. Mr Hollis says that's the whole job: the trick is in what you do when it goes wrong. I'm inclined to think he's right, though I'd rather not test it again in front of the mayor.

We're on the field behind the chapel until Sunday. Last night I walked down past the dodgems and watched the lights come on one bulb at a time, and a boy with chalk on his hands asked me if I was the one who talks to the lion. I said I was, and he looked so disappointed that I gave him the star from my collar, the little tin one with the chipped point. He's probably lost it by now, but it made his evening.

I've pinned the skull brooch to my lapel for luck. Keep the postcard of the sea for me on the mantel, and tell Mum the lace is holding up better than I am. I'll come home when the hat wears through, or when they stop paying me in sixpences, whichever comes first.

Love, Nell