Small palm tree tattoo on ribs

The big dipper is up at Ashworth Green and Dad has finally let me hold the brush on the gallopers. You will laugh, because he spent the whole morning telling me a palm tree is harder than a horse. It isn't. A horse has to look like it is running. A palm tree only has to look like it is leaning away from something, which is the trick, he says, and he is right about that.

We have no sea within a hundred miles of here, so the fronds are a bit of a fib. Mum reckons a fair is all fibs anyway, and the ones with the best paint get the most money. Dad cut the stencil from an old tin lid that once held boot polish. Thin trunk, five fronds, one drooping down like a wet sock. I held the lid steady while he dabbed black on the side panel, and the tree came out looking like a shadow that had decided to stand up on its own.

Mrs Okonedo from the candyfloss stall came over with her sticky fingers and asked if we could paint one on her cart too. She wants it small, just above the sugar tin where the customers can see it. Dad said no, it is the rides that get the palms and the stalls get nothing, and then he winked at me and said tomorrow.

Write back soon and tell me if the ocean there is still grey. I am keeping the last of the black for your side of the van.

Love, Elin