A few months ago, I got my first flash tattoo.
‘Flash’ tattoos are designs that you buy off the shelf from the tattoo artists. (In the olden days, these were the ones that would be on the walls and in the books in the foyers — but in the year of our lord 2022, I found it on an Instagram highlight.) And despite having written previously about how much I love a “meaningless” tattoo, I’ve previously only ever had bespoke designs drawn for me, like the one I featured in this newsletter.
This changed as soon as I saw a flash sheet that Holly — tattoo artist and owner of the slickest Instagram bio in the world — posted on Instagram. It was a sheet full of assorted items; and amongst the cherry, the stamp and the Betty Boop was a perfume bottle that read Mambo No 5 instead of Chanel No 5. In the same way that Nessa knew that that John Prescott punch was for her: I knew, in that moment, that that tattoo would be mine.
But, here’s a wonderful thing about flash tattoos: it wouldn’t just be mine. A few months later I was scrolling through instagram stories when on Holly’s stories I saw this pointillist perfume bottle — but on someone else’s arm.
This was something I hadn’t considered before, but I was immediately thrilled by it. Now, somewhere, out there, I have the tattoo version of a blood brother - an ink sibling (and, it must be said, an ink sibling with an exceptional sense of humour and clearly cracking taste). Other than that, I know nothing: who are they? What do they do? What are they enthusiastic about? I have none of the answers - but you best believe that if I ever see them out and about, I’ll try and get the deets. (In case it wasn’t already wildly obvious, I’m very much the woman that pelts halfway across the smoking area to say hello when she sees someone she’s met once. It’s not something I always love about myself.)
Thinking about human connection seems to be on my brain at the moment. A couple of months ago, I wrote about the joys of having pedestrian objects attached to random people:
And I think about it every time I go charity shopping, where I have this ridiculous dream that I’ll find something of my Mum’s, despite the fact that a) she lived in a different part of North London for a brief period in her life and b) why would she have labelled her clothes when she was a grown-ass woman?!
Have you ever met someone with the same tattoo as you?