You will all remember fondly the time, about a year and a half ago, when I went and got my first tattoo. I expected to freak out. I half thought that maybe I would faint. I at least thought that it would be quite a painful experience. It was none of the above. Oh, okay, so it hurt a little, and it did some bleeding, and I spent the following eight hours showing my arse to people that I barely knew while rambling around Edinburgh in a drunken embarrassment, but 16 months later and I have yet to regret getting it done. I still catch myself looking back at myself in mirrors, and buying new trousers dependent on how well they show off the old tatt.
I have in actual fact been absolutely desperate to get another one, and that itching became all the greater once the original tattoo’s anniversary came and went. I had always intended to go back the following year to Edinburgh and get another one, but with one thing and another that didn’t happen, and I couldn’t come up with a design that I felt would be suitable to follow me through the rest of my days. If there’s one thing you shouldn’t rush in to, it’s the indelible scarring of tattoos.
Which is why it kind of came as something of a surprise to me on Tuesday 22nd of November when I found myself sitting on a chair with a lady sitting in front of me, who was drawing stars on to the top of my right foot without a care in the world. Stars? Foot? The thought hadn’t even occurred to me two weeks before hand.
I’ve been scrambling around for ages for a design of an angel that I’m happy with to get done just below my right shoulder. I have a very vague idea of what I want, and a very strong view on what I don’t want, and what I don’t want is everything I’ve seen so far, so it’s quite frustrating. But I didn’t want to keep getting little tattoos done, because, as Mrs Bishop quite rightly pointed out, I’d end up looking like a child had taken a pen to me while I slept. The Kelly Osbourne / Robbie Williams approach to tattooing, where you start off with one tiny thing and then wake up one day covered in permanent scribbles.
But then the stars idea came and I couldn’t stop the run away train that is my compulsive nature. And so I found myself clutching on to a chair and trying to look brave while a lady touched my feet – I HATE PEOPLE TOUCHING MY FEET I CAN’T EMPHASISE THAT ENOUGH – and inked me good and proper.
Can I just stress for people who’ve never had a tattoo, but would maybe quite like one if only they were brave enough – Tattoos. Don’t. Hurt. They really really really really don’t. They really don’t.
I’m incredibly happy with the result. Sure, it doesn’t make my foot look any less dumpy or my toes any less tiny and weird looking, but it makes me sparkly every time I see them. I’ve been walking around barefoot every time I’m indoors and sockless every time I’m outdoors. I’ll be dead by the end of January, but who cares? Sparkle feet!