I went to bed EARLY on Friday night, the sketchiness of connection from the Isle of Wight precluding my usual indulgence in the Awesome Bloggers VidChat (sponsored by the Wakefield Doctrine). I managed to skip in for half a second on my phone, before everything froze and made peculiar noises, and I knew it was no good. So Dad and I stayed up, watched a movie (1), then he summarily dismissed me at the remarkably early (for me) hour of half past two in the morning.
And I slept (2).
Ohhh I slept.
Upon waking, I felt refreshed and relaxed and all the good things a mini-holiday is meant to make you feel. So I lay in bed and
immediately jumped onto my phone to check Facebook and Twitter and see how much I’d missed whilst I was wasting time sleeping reveled in it. Then went to have breakfast whilst reading a book, NOT my laptop (3).
And then, yes, after that I caved and plugged in (4), just to see how y’all were doing over at the TToT (beautifully, by the way) and have a last squizz at Facebook before packing up to leave for home.
Home, by way of the tattoo studio!
My journey was beautiful (5). I positioned myself so I could gaze out of the window and drink in the sea, the blue sky and the sun sparkling on the tip of each wave, and I thought of my friends, my family, my Husby and my life, and in spite of the challenges, the wonderful GOOD things just kept pouring into my mind until I felt as though I might burst from happiness.
Nothin’ like a boat ride thinkin’ pretty pink and blue thoughts – quite the mellifluous moment.
Away then, on a crowded bus, plugged into headphones and boogieing away discreetly (6) as the people packed in and in and in, and we all took the journey dinging off one anothers’ elbows and handbags. Alight at the station and take marching orders for the high street (why pay for a bus when I can take the exercise and the goodness of a sunshine day?), boots in time to the beat, to find the green shop with the needles and ink, and catch my breath when I discovered they could see me almost as soon as I’d sourced the cash (7) (the work of moments, thanks to a nearby ATM).
And into the studio proper. Along from me a sweet, lairy grandmother having her son’s name etched into the top of her foot. She twinkled when she heard it was my first time (8), and talked me through the process as the Artist set up his stall in front of me and explained about needles and sterilisation and aftercare.
The Chair had as many movable parts as a follower of the Kama Sutra, and with the headrest removed, I took the instruction to straddle it, wrapped my arms around the back-rest, braced my feet against the floor and held the other woman’s gaze as the buzzing filled my ears, pressure was applied to my back, and the marking began.
And you know what? It wasn’t as bad as I thought (9). I mean, it wasn’t pleasant, and yes, it was sore. But not unmanageably so. It took possibly as little as 40 minutes. Or maybe an hour. I forgot to check in amongst all the anxexcitementiety.
Then they got bandaged up and I marched home, skin smarting, reminding me of the permanence and joy of my decision.
I waited. Two hours. With bated breath and burning desire to DO IT NOW, to take the dressings off and reveal the designs in all their glory and SEE them. And photograph them. And TELL people.
They’re beautiful* (10).
So what I need to know now, is:
- Are we having a gang name?
- Is a photo of said Green Eyes a membership requirement? (I feel like it should be)
- What superpowers do we get?
I feel like if we had a point, other than celebrating our complete awesomeness at choosing the right genetic switches to flip to end up this way, we could probably change the world. Who’s up for it?
*I fully acknowledge and accept that both of my parents hate my tattoos (and any future tattoos) on principle, are Distinctly Unimpressed, and will both give me side-eye, make snarky comments, or sigh and shake their heads. That’s a given.