Unicorn head with paisley mane

Don't fret, the lift is working again, though it groans between the seventh and eighth floors like a bad tooth. I'm writing because of the drawing. Someone pencilled a unicorn on the back of a bin collection notice and wedged it in the lift mirror on the ninth floor, and I've been carrying it up and down in my coat pocket ever since, because it reminded me of the curtains in the old flat on Prospect Row.

The horn goes off to the left like a fishing rod, and the mane is all paisley, little teardrops with their heads curled over, shaded so dark at the bottom they look like they're dripping. You'd laugh. I stood there between floors with it in my hand, the lights flickering on the grey, and I swear the hair moved.

Mrs Dhillon from twelve says it belongs to the Aldridge boy who draws on everything, and he's been told off for the walls, so I'm to hand it back to him on Sunday. I said I'd keep it till then. I keep looking at the eye, which is the only soft part of the whole thing, and thinking how you used to hide under the kitchen table when the wind came off the estate and rattled the windows.

Anyway, I've put the kettle on. Ring me Thursday, love, reverse the charges if you need to.

Mum