The current fad for them — all those stupid celtic runes and flowers over your sacrum and so on — has left me cold. Your body is your canvas, eh? Recreating yourself as artwork, eh? Just staple the fucking Mona Lisa to the leg of your pants and go about your day. There are plenty of other bandwagons to jump on. I don't actually say that, by the way. Do what you want; I'm just thinking it as you wave that wolf on your shoulder at me.

However I did see a tattoo last year sometime that caught my imagination. Stopped at a set of lights in La Trobe Street a girl on the bike in front of me simply had a bass clef tattooed over her right scapula. No notes on it, just a pure declaration of bass-hood. I admired the understatement of it. We exchanged a few words about the tattoo before the lights went green and we rode off on our separate ways.

To be honest I'd forgotten about that exchange until I saw the tattoo again on a friend of a friend at the Espy on Friday. Same girl. Aren't those sorts of “this town ain’t so big” encounters delicious? As you can see, I took the chance to grab a photo of it on my phone.

If somebody buys me a tattoo parlour gift certificate, I might just get that one myself. It looks pretty comfy on that bandwagon.

¶ 4:00 pm