Stencil-style portrait of a man's face

The rain has been coming sideways down Castle Market since Tuesday, and Mr Okonedo has given up trying to keep the stall tarp dry, so I've been cutting stencils under the counter with the lamp pulled down low. You asked why I bother with black card when the printer at the Co-op would do it in an afternoon. Because a machine doesn't know where the light falls on a jaw. Last night I cut a face for a bloke who wanted it on his forearm, all swept-back hair and a brow like a shelf, and I spent an hour on one line of the mouth, the bit that turns down as if someone has just said something he'll remember. You can't rush that with a scalpel.

The card is cheap grey board, and you cut the dark parts out, not the light, which is the reverse of what your head wants to do. I keep reminding myself that the white is what's left over. By eleven the hair was a sweep of black with gaps where the wet gleam used to be, and the ear was just a hook of blade work. I held it up to the lamp and the whole face came out of the dark like someone surfacing in a swimming baths.

He's collecting it on Saturday. When he saw the cut he said nothing, only ran his thumb along the edge of the mouth and nodded, which is the best review I ever get. Then he asked if I'd keep the offcuts. I said they were only rubbish. He said his grandad used to draw faces in the steam on the bus window, and the rubbish is always the bit that gets rubbed away first.

Anyway, write back. Tell me whether Dad's shed roof held.

Love, Mags