Traditional heart with MOM banner

The pass has been shut since Tuesday, so I am writing this at the long table of the Coachman's Rest with snow banked against the windows and a mug of stewed tea going cold at my elbow. Mrs Pryce, the landlady, has taken in six of us off the coach, and she says the plough won't come through before Thursday, so I have no excuse left for not writing properly.

Last night a tattooist from Hereford was stuck here too, a thin man called Lyle with ink under every nail. He had a tin of red and a roll of needles wrapped in oilcloth, and when the fire dropped low he offered to work on anyone who would sit still. Nobody would. I sat still. I asked for a heart on my upper arm, and he drew a grey banner across the middle without asking what I wanted written on it. He said everyone wants the word and nobody wants the spelling argued over, so he lettered it bold and black and said it would outlast us both.

The flowers were for nothing, he said, only to stop the eye running off the edge. The needle was hot from the grate and it stung worse than I expected, but I kept still. Mrs Pryce brought the lamp closer, read the banner over his shoulder, and said nothing, which from her is a speech.

I am writing because I have not said that word out loud to you in years, and now it is on me, red and bold enough to see from across the room. I'll show you when I'm home. You will say the flames at the bottom look like they are trying to get out. Tell me I am wrong about that.

Love, Dai