A sun is happening. A shiny sky sun that kicks the ozone layer’s butt and breaks through to do shiny sky sun stuff to humans of this part of England. The sun doesn’t wear a hat (please don’t take song lyrics as fact, they’re often about as accurate as any statement coming out of Donald Trump’s Orangina face) but if it did it would wear it at a jaunty angle today. For a millisecond before it was burnt to a crisp by virtue of the fact that the surface temperatures of the sun are super fucking hot. Sorry to blind you with scientific terms but sometimes it’s necessary to get a point across.
I have just been inked. No, a crazy librarian did not cover me with today’s date from her clicky little stamper (librarians can, of course, be male, but the best ones aren’t). No, I’ve not been attacked by a squid. Yes, I’ve had a tattoo. Two years ago, when I was about to have my first tattoo done, I was worried that my pain threshold might be so low that I’d run off screaming as soon as the needle touched my precious, precious skin. Wowsers and totes amazeballs, I didn’t find it too painful at all. Admittedly it was a small piece but for me it was a triumph akin to landing on Neil Armstrong’s scrotum just as he was setting foot on the moon.
Today’s piece is larger than the first, possibly the largest to date. Its number five. I may have succumbed to the thing everyone told me when I was up for that first one – addiction to ink. Oh well, there are worse things to be addicted to. There are worse things I have been addicted to.
This was paid for with the leftover lolly from my vacation, transformed back into pound sterling, added to from my bank account a little. Fittingly it is a dot matrix type silhouette of Lake Erie, my favourite of the Great Lakes on account of a) it being the only one I actually know, b) it being the only one I have taken a ferry across and landed on an island as if re-enacting an attempted British recapture of American soil which did once happen (unsuccessfully) on that very island, and c) it being the lake Scott and I drove along the southern shores of to reach Niagara Falls a few weeks ago.
The silhouette was tinkered with at the design stage by another dear friend, Angus, with whom I spent my long, hot, wondrous weekend in Paris last August so this piece has more than one memory and more than one person tied up in it. I think I already know what I want for my next piece, which will be some text, but I can’t afford that kind of frivolity for some time now as what little savings I have left need to be out towards a couple of days in Dublin with my son in the summer.
After which I will probably want to have James Joyce’s potato-like face tattooed on one of my elbows.