I now have 10 tattoos. My most recent tattoo was an impulsive decision thanks to instagram. So after being really excited for two days, I finally made the journey to the other side of London for a 20 minute tattoo.
The journey was faster than I expected. I spent the first 20 minutes on the train panicking that I would be late, but then the last 30 thinking about what to do with all my free time. Great. Sitting on the underground, I was relieved to see the 2 minutes per stop average still worked. It’s a very surprising thing, but I’m glad I had some normalcy. As usual, I probably looked like an idiot knotting string and avoiding people in the corner. Frantic glances up to the map, making sure I hadn’t forgotten the tattoo studio I frequent.
After aimlessly strolling around New Cross for 20 minutes, I walked into the tattoo studio I hadn’t seen since February. If you can’t tell by context clues, it was South City Market. I’m always there, and the staff made a point to joke about my almost full loyalty card. I think it’s actually full, but I’ll let it marinate for a week. I wonder what the reward will be.
So I sat really well for a blackwork tattoo on my forearm, posed for pictures I was severely under dressed for, and that was it. As quickly as I had arrived, I was ushered out of the door by a masked tattooist. I have to say though, she was so efficient. It actually got me thinking about applying similar blackwork techniques in cakes.
Before taking the tube back, and subjecting myself to the heat of the Central Line, I called my mum. She’s less social media savvy than I, which is saying something, but I set her a challenge. I said “they’ve just uploaded my tattoo to instagram, once you find what I got, I’ll get on the train.”
After 25 or so minutes of me explaining what Instagram stories were, and reminding her what I was wearing, she figured it out. She was scared I was going to get a spider. Or a scorpion. Or more chains, because that’s what my artist is known for. She was very happy to see I only got the word “icon” across my forearm. I anticipated a long line of questioning when I got home though.
The journey to and from New Cross spans three lines, one of them being the overground, so I had a journey ahead of me.
If anyone’s been to a concert at the o2, you know the tube journey on the Jubilee line home is just the worst. Absolutely no difference here. Sitting from Canada Water to Bond Street had me thinking about all the concerts and functions I had been to. I thought about how weird it was that I was actually sitting for once, and that I wasn’t wearing any overpriced merch.
The tattoo high kinda died down after a while, and was replaced by that familiar stinging sensation. The one from my mum asking exactly what my tattoo meant, AND the one on my arm, by the way.
I didn’t knot that much on the journey but I do think I started something cute.
Welcome to the family, tattoo number 10!
Thanks for reading, have a lovely day.