Thug Life script on the back of a hand

Shop is quiet for once, the ovens ticking as they cool and the window still black except for the light on the pavement. I found your practice sheet under the proving baskets. Eleven attempts at the same two words in royal icing, and a loop on every capital T like a lasso someone has just thrown. I know you were cross when I took the nozzle off you on Saturday, but look at that loop. You let the wrist go loose on the way round and it comes out as if it means it.

The docket was from a lad who wanted a sheet cake for his cousin's leaving do. He'd written the message in capitals so tight the biro had nearly gone through the card: Thug Life, with a grin drawn beside it, as if we'd never seen it before. Mr Halloran at the till read it out and laughed, and I said we'd do it in pale blue with a border of sugar stars, because a cake is a cake and his cousin was off to Leeds on Monday.

Here is the thing I want you to keep. The words were the easy part. The hard part was the slant, every letter leaning the same way like people walking into a wind. Get the slant right and nobody reads the words anymore. They just follow the line.

You had flour on your cheek in that photo you sent. Leave it there until you've finished your first batch. I'll see you at six.

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