I’m a qualified tattoo artist and sometimes I do a stint down Greg’s parlour. It’s a room out back of a new age incense, candles and crystals shop in the High Street.
We don’t get a lot of business but it’s fun to chat up the young talent that comes in. Generally they’re in pairs, egging each other on. Sometimes they start teasing with talk of where they want it. The tattoo, that is. Now and then I can get them to show me their boobs or strip down to their thongs. Nine times out of ten they leave after they’ve had their giggle.
It’s mostly blokes or desperate fat birds who actually have tattoos done. Or maybe that’s just the ones Greg gives me, keeping the candy for himself.
Over the years, though, I think it’s been worth taking the bad for the good. When I first met Sandra I had no idea that she was going to tip the balance so far in my favour.
She came in about 10.30 on a Saturday morning just as I was putting the kettle on. I turned to face the doorway when I heard the beads rustle and she was standing there, bold as brass. She was a picture. Better than a picture, actually. All those air-brushed cover girls of FHM and Maxim couldn’t hold a candle to Sandra.
Sandra's Tattoo
The story of Sandra and her tattoo.