Aged 19, I downed a triple Jack Daniels and walked into the first tattoo parlour I came across in Camden Market one busy Saturday afternoon. It wasn’t as much of a whim as it may appear; I had been doodling tattoos on my jotter since the tender age of 12, but waited until I was 200 miles or so away from my parents to pluck up the courage to have it inked on my body. Needless to say they were horrified (my father in fact rang a lazer removal company for a quote).
So as I lay on the tattoo bench for the second time earlier this month, I couldn’t help wondering what my daddy would think of his baby daughter’s latest etching…
It took me a while to find the right font, I wanted something reminiscent of his own handwriting, and finally settled for this relaxed, loopy script.
It’s on my left ribs (he was left handed and it’s near my heart) and let me tell you readers. IT BLOODY HURT. This from a woman who lives with chronic back pain (I have mild spina bifida), has endured two 36-hour labours and two emergency c-sections… it BURNED. More than that, as the needle jack-hammered against my rib bones it made me feel sick. Luckily, it isn’t massive (props to my husband who sits for 4-5 hour sessions on his full back-piece and sleeve designs), so took 25-mins, max. More than that and I might have had to stop at ‘twenty’.
Much like childbirth, the second it was done the pain was forgotten and I was already planning my next tat… suffice to say, I’m hooked. Sorry Daddy.