Inky

When I went down to the pet shop yesterday, I passed one of the local tattoo emporia. A huge biker-bouncer type was standing outside, tattooed biceps on display, shaven head turned to the sun like a lizard sunning himself on a rock. I went back today hoping he'd have made a return appearance and I'd be able to get a shot this time (before running away very quickly of course), but naturally there was no sign. Just this sign.
Yes, you might think Harrogate is all genteel tea shops and overpriced art galleries, but an alarming number of pawnbrokers and pound shops have sprouted like weeds around them in recent years. And if you fancy acquiring an off-the-peg blue scorpion or an inky butterfly in your lunch hour, there are now no less than four parlours to choose from. Personally I have never quite seen the point of tattoos. What if you break up with the g/b f whose name you had written into a scroll on your bicep? What if you lose interest in the band whose lyrical poetry you have placed between your shoulder blades?
Perhaps I just don't have a sufficiently long attention span to want to inscribe myself with a particular blue-green smudge for the rest of my life. Maybe I have a commitment problem. Maybe the urge to look like a walking human sketchpad just hasn't overcome me yet