LA Tattoo

Ok… This is slightly left field but I get these moments when I think. Right! Sod you Britain! Sod you Hastings! I’m going to do one! 

It’s utter cobblers of course as I am dug in like a tick and I love my little flat and I love the sea and I know some proper lovely people hereabouts but every now and again things can just get too much. Between the school classroom level bitchyness, the clicky groups that feather their own nests while exhibiting virtually no discernable talent whatsoever and the weird, almost laughable, sense of civic pride for the littlest of victories and the crumbiest  of claims to fame it, does often get quite tiresome. I can’t bare hubris or any sort of pride really, I suspect I may have been ahmish in a previous existence although I do like me trainers … That would be totally out.

So whenever things start getting a bit claustrophobic my mind starts wandering, looking for escape routes…

So get this, in the time I have been on Instagram I have noticed that two groups seem to like my stuff more than anyone else. Tattoo artists and Los Angeles art galleries. So, logic dictates that the best thing for me to do is to up sticks and move to LA and become a tattoo artist. Right? I must admit, I do get really sick of trying to bash my head against the duel brick walls of provincial fuddyduddyism and rarified down from London yummymummyridiculousdogism and it would be nice to deal with a few people without so many preconceptions for a change. 

There are some major flaws with this scheme though… Firstly, I am a heavy duty irony user, I get into enough trouble I this country without being taken literally on the worst elements of my gallows humour, let alone irony free America. Then there is the matter of pre exhisting health problem and the appalling U.S health system. I’d be in the hole already before I even tried to find somewhere to live. Then there is all that driving everywhere business…. I love walking, it’s when I get my best ideas plus you really don’t want to see me driving anywhere as I drift off badly enough on my feet, let alone behind a ton of metal. 

And most importantly… I don’t want any tattoos. Apart from the basic fact that my medication causes me to bleed like a stuck pig even from looking at a needle, I think many of them look awful. There are some exceptions though, a photographer friend of mine has got some doozys and I’ve seen some lovely ones that look like Indian fabric recently that were quite lovely but mostly, well, they aren’t permanent are they? They go all blurry and faded and smudgy and some people have such idiotic things put onto their skin that you just want to slap them. My dad had the blurriest things on his arms, original wartime indigo work done in Singapore and Ceylon when he was in the navy but by the time I was born they looked like an old receipt pulled from a trouser pocket after they have been in the washing machine. 

So as escape plans go that is pretty rubbish rubbish I guess… I guess I’ll just have to stick around for a while. Which will in turn annoy a few people, so hey! Bonus! 


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