INK

It happened about twenty seven times. A student would put up his hand and catch my eye. So I’d walk over trying to put on my most intelligent-looking face and recall everything I know about Shakespeare’s Henry V. But inevitably, the question would have nothing to do with Henry, and everything to do with my tattoo (and the state I was in when I got it).

So, here it is. The story of my tattoo:

I was on a “gap year” in the UK when my cousin decided he wanted an enormous (and relatively ugly) dragon tattooed on the outside of his left bicep. I decided to tag along and watch.

So we took a train from London to Brighton (the tattoo artists there were cheaper than in London, and, being on a gap year, we were finding it hard enough to eat even one square meal a day, so we obviously wanted to spare every pence possible).

The tattoo parlour was a dingy place which had an obese, head-to-toe tattooed, bald lady as a receptionist.

While my cousin was being “inked” I decided that I wanted a tattoo too. Not very deep or profound, I know. But I just wanted one too.

It is a sun (which was on the back of my Van’s sneaker) and it has two intertwining eternity signs (which I copied from a ring I was wearing) in the middle of it.

So that was it. It cost £30. It was very sore – I think I bit my tongue until it was quite raw. I don’t regret it. And I was 100% sober when I got it. And no, I am not suggesting that you go out and get a tattoo too. But if you absolutely have to get one (when you are old and wise and no longer at school), here’s my advice: get it on a part of your body that won’t sag! ‘Cause a saggy tattoo is just gross. Eeew (involuntary shudder).

Ma’am van Zyl