The pine cone & the raspberry
My first tattoo was the blink-182 smiley face, black and dripping down my ribs. I was just 18 and never dreamed that 10 years later I'd be beginning a half sleeve. The pictures I constantly see on social media of tattooed women are taken from a very narrow spectrum: Skinny, conventionally hot, Brody Dalle lookalikes. I still have to talk myself into being "good enough" to have the tattoos I want because I don't fit that mould. People often say they didn't see me as "the type of girl to have tattoos", which only encourages me to get more.
All of my tattoos so far have meant something to me and these two are the last that represent family members before I drop off into the abyss of comedy tributes and stuff I happen to like from artists' instagram profiles.
When I was little, we were skint and my mum would take me for long walks through the pine forest near our house....and throw pine cones at me and pretend they were dog poo. I thought this was the funniest joke EVER (I was only a toddler) and it's survived 25 years. It's a toast to my mum as a single parent and all the fun we had together.
My great grandparents had a raspberry farm that was handed down to my grandad and auntie. The berries were taken out before I reached my teen years, but I was lucky enough to see how things were done "in the olden days". Fifers would come up for the summer and pick all day, swearing and smoking. They stayed in huts and static caravans on the farm that are still there and my auntie has filled them with animals because she's a bit of an oddball.