The Strokes logo with floral doodle design

The gate sign is finally down and I have the lid of Dad's old paint tin in my hands, still carrying the black ring where he traced round a saucer every time he wanted a circle to come out true. You will laugh, but I couldn't put it on the bonfire. Mrs Okafor next door says the allotment committee wants the shed repainted before the show, and I told her the lettering stays exactly as it is, slanting off to the right like it's late for a train.

I spent Sunday with a pen and the back of the seed catalogue, drawing what I'd planted round the lettering. Dahlias with too many petals, sweet peas curling like question marks, and little paisley shapes for the seed heads, each one filled in with dots because the fine nib ran dry halfway through and I was too stubborn to fetch another. By the end the whole page looked like a fence somebody had gone over with lace.

Here is the odd part. When I held the tin lid up against the shed wall, the black circle sat behind the word like a full stop nobody had asked for, and the flowers seemed to grow out from under it rather than around. I stood there with the trowel in my hand thinking Dad would have said the garden was finally finishing his sentence.

So I've planted the beans in a ring this year, four rows in a circle, with a gap at the top where the letters run through. Come up at the end of the month. Bring that box of nibs from your desk, the good ones. I'll show you the shed.

Love, Maud