A wee guestblog for SOTS on tattoos, romance, comics, and a mouse throwing a brick.
After twelve loooong years, it looks like the tattoo ban has been lifted. My husband has suggested we get paired tattoos (wait – don’t stick your fingers down your throat just yet!) of a cat and a mouse with a brick, and I’ve yipped like a Yorkshire terrier in heat and accepted.
So the tattoo ban. Allow me to explain. I got my first tattoo in my mid-teens when I was still at a posh school ‘For Young Ladies’ (nb – I’m now neither), and my twelfth at 22. At the almost-middle-age of 34 I still miss the endorphin glow that comes with the bzzzzzzzzzzzzzt of the inking machine pulling at my skin and the instant feel-good factor of a permanent, positive change to the sack of meat my mind lives in. But when I got #12, my then-best-friend-now-husband did me a deal: he’d help me pay for it if…
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