Small zigzag tattoo on a finger

I found the seismograph roll in the bottom of the box you posted me, still rolled up with the rubber band gone brittle. Mr Ashby let us take turns at the pen that night in Year Nine, when the tremor from the sea sent its wobble up through the science block and the whole lab shook. Do you remember the line it drew? A fat, shaking scribble, then the sharp teeth of the aftershock, and you laughing so hard you knocked the inkwell over onto my coursework.

I'm going to the reunion on the Saturday, though I haven't decided whether to wear the good coat. Everyone will ask what I've done with my life. I'll tell them about the bakery in Ramsgate and the two kids, and they'll nod, and somebody will say the line on the paper looked like a mountain range drawn by a child. Nobody will know it was the ground moving under us. I've kept that thought the way you keep a bus ticket.

Here's the thing I actually wanted to write down. Last week my father's old seismology notes turned up in the loft, and the first page had a zigzag drawn in biro with the words "signal, not noise" beneath it. He'd underlined it twice. I've been wondering all week whether to show it to you on the night, or whether some things are better kept small and private, where only I can see them.

Come early. Save me a seat by the window, and bring the roll. We'll tell Mr Ashby we were right about the aftershock, even if he's gone now and can't argue.

Love, Jo