Sunburst ankle tattoo on a beach

The big top went up again on Tuesday, though only just. Mr Pell wanted the old sunburst back over the ring, the one Aunt Ida hand-stencilled in 1961 when the company still had forty horses and a band that could play in tune. I climbed the ladder with the tin of gold leaf and the scalloped stencil, and the wind kept trying to lift the canvas off my shoulders like a sail. Half the rays have flaked away since you left. I painted them back anyway, one slow arc at a time.

The sand is the worst of it. The fairground at Weston has let the council take the car park, so we pitch on the dunes now, and every morning the wind leaves a fine layer over everything: the ticket box, the lion's water trough, the wardrobe trunks. Nell says it gets in the rings of the trapeze and grinds them. She says a lot of things lately. Last night she swept the platform three times before the matinee, and the crowd was eleven people and a dog.

Still, when the sun came through the open flap this afternoon, it hit the new gold and threw a bright fan across the sawdust, and for a minute the whole tired tent looked like it might still be worth something. The dog barked at it. I laughed so hard I had to sit down on the trunk.

Mr Pell has asked me to sign the papers for the sale of the lion. I haven't yet. Come home if you can, and bring your good pair of boots. The sun is still up there, I think. It only needs somebody to keep painting it.

Love, Marguerite