So I finally stopped dithering about with much-folded print-outs of things that I was 'definitely' going to turn into a tattoo and actually did it. I chose a retro, Sailor Jerry-style swallow, symbolic of all sorts of things, and despite being ridiculously (shaking) nervous all Saturday, it wasn't half as bad as I thought it was going to be. With my arm rather ostentatiously bound up in clingfilm I felt a bit like a patient and perfectly at liberty to spend the rest of the weekend eating to 'build up my strength'.
It's been a perfect Brightony weekend too, involving my favourite cafe the Mock Turtle (which has proper china cups and saucers and cakes the size of your head) and sitting in the Pavilion gardens, where I spotted not one but two people reading books about Buddhism and a lot of perfect children in stripey babygros, probably fed on organic carrots and named Daisy.
Eeek, as I type I keep catching glimpses of my tattoo. It's very there. And despite being officially grown-up now, I am still slightly concerned that my mum is going to kill me.
