The Musings Of An Opinionated Sod [Help Me Grow!]

I had always wanted one but between being a chicken and just not knowing what I wanted, it took me 4 decades before I finally had one.

My first was big.

Down the entire underside of my left arm.

A phrase my Dad used to always say to me.

It was important I went big because I wanted to break my own barrier.

And I did, because from that first tattoo at Venice Beach in LA, I went and had more and more and more.

My Mum never really liked them, even though many were about her and Dad. In fact she famously said, “I wish you’d have got these out your system when you were younger” … suggesting that they would have been and gone by then. Haha.

But tattoos have become very important to me.

Very important in feeding my sentimentality.

From my cats nose to my old phone number to the date of my marriage, my parents passing and Otis’ birth. There’s a lot on there and a lot still to come, helped by the fact that I hardly ever feel any pain from them. In fact a few times I’ve fallen asleep … which says more for how tired I am than how tough I am.

And while I appreciate not everyone has tattoos that are so deeply personal, every single tattoo has a story attached to them.

A moment.
A situation.
A historic event.
A time with friends.
A need to just do something different.

While I appreciate tattoos are not to everyone’s taste, I find it interesting how much judgement some people have towards those who have them.

My favourite insult is when they say, “don’t they realise they’ll be saggy when they’re old?”.

Yes we do.

And yes, it might be unpleasant.

But the reality is whether sentimental or opportunistic … the point of them is as much as what they represent in our memories as they look like on our skin.