So, the deed is done. After years of wanting to get myself inked I’ve finally gone and done it. Yes, I have my first tattoo...

http://www.thedailybeast.com/witw/articles/2013/09/16/the-view-from-london-the-girl-with-the-apple-tattoo.html

Body art is everywhere these days, but it wasn’t always. When I was a teenager I didn’t know anyone with a tattoo. My parents forbade me even to get my ears pierced until the age of 16, and I can still remember the furore when my younger sister came home with a small silver ring through her belly-button. In my twenties I considered a tattoo, but wasn’t sure what to get. When I think back over the unsuitable boyfriends’ initials which I might have chosen, the profound song lyrics, or smiley faces, I’m glad I didn’t have the courage. Until now...

T-day arrived. I woke up and told my boyfriend I’d changed my mind. At breakfast I changed it back again. Arriving at the studio I had to sign a sinister form, consenting to ‘permanent alteration of my appearance’. After that things are a bit vague. I remember lying down while the tattooist set to work, and then came appalling agony, as if someone was carving into my hip with a scalpel. I knew it must be a needle, not an actual blade, but I couldn’t bring myself to look. For nearly an hour I gritted my teeth, sweat on my forehead, praying for it to be over...