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Published: September 26th 2006
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31st December 2006
Edinburgh, Scotland.
I spent the morning flicking through tattoo catalogues and internet sites for a design that I loved enough to have imprinted upon me and could get the tattoist to agree to. By the appointed time I was out of ideas, but he had taken note of my suggestions and reasons and had drawn up a deceptively simple celtic-style butterfly design. It wasn't the answer to all my dreams or anything, but I liked it and thought I could live with it, so I reluctantly agreed to a size somewhat bigger than I'd envisioned (had hoped for
miniscule, really) and negotiated the placement of it.
The next thing I knew I was laid out flat on a surgical table, staring up at a picture of the god Krishna, of all things. I started laughing with a touch of hysteria, and had to explain to the tattooist - nice guy, 30's, kinda spunky - that my mother was a Krishna devotee. There was also a Lord Ganesh picture (six little dieties in all), which I'm pretty sure is also involved with the Hare Krishna's, as I tried to tell him. But he saw through the diversions,
and began a lecture on not moving and trying not to let my muscles tense up, as the adrenalin makes your blood flow faster or some such thing. And with that, he turned on the machine and began the surgery...ahem, tattooing.
An acute sense of déjà vu swept over me at the sound of the machine, which made the same angry, buzzing drone that accompanied just about every childhood visit to the dentist. I remembered that despite the local anaesthetic given by the dentist, the evil-bee machine had always hurt. And this time I didn't even have that much as a buffer - though I assure you that I had asked about anaesthetics prior to climbing onto the table. Apparently it thins the blood or something. I think a more likely explanation is that the tattooists just don't want to fork out the money for it, and see the pain as part of some archaic initiation ritual.
His fingers tightened on my foot and I closed my eyes, breathing slowly and thinking instead of how Mum would laugh to hear of his pictures. A needle began to drag slowly across my skin, a little deeply so, as if
penetrating about a milimetre beneath the surface and tearing through it like a tiny plow through a field. The sensation was not even vaguely unbearable, but real enough that I imagined a thin trail of blood blossoming up through the broken skin in his wake. A cocky smile tilted the corners of my mouth. This was easy.
As he ventured closer to my tibia bone (that's the bit on the inside of your ankle that juts out a little and is rounded), the smile died and my eyes flew open to stare in dawning horror at the pictures. Um... Ahh... Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod!! The buzzing bee had turned into an electric carving knife sawing into the marrow of my bone. I glared at those six dieties and tried to concentrate on how funny a coincidence that was, tried to keep my muscles loose, adrenalin down.
Shhh....Serenity, harmony, tranquility, peace of mind and calm auras and a whole bunch of hippie platitudes and GET THAT GODDAMNED CHIZEL OUTTA MY BONE!!. Apparently I passed with flying colours, handling it well, but damned if every second in there wasn't an hour. Never mind the New Year. I didn't emerge from
that basement for weeks, by my estimation.
And when it was all over I looked down at my brand new tattoo....and cringed a little at how dark the purple in it was. Maybe blue and pink would have been a better idea? Ah, well, too late now, so we wrapped it up and after thanking him I limped off to buy the special cream that I'd spend the next two months applying three times a day.
Back at the hippie hostel (funkiest hostel in Scotland!), I talked with some of my roomies for a while, got dressed for the New Year's Eve party, bought a bottle of Baileys (yum), a little milk, and threw myself wholeheartedly into playing drinking games with some new travel-buddies. By the time we left for the party, I'd downed most of the 750ml bottle (usually straight), and some beer, and possibly some vodka - I'm a little hazy on the details....
Spirits high, we threw ourselves into Princes St, where the party was getting into full swing and everyone was joyously wishing everybody else a very, very happy Hogmanay. The organisers had cordonned off the ferris wheel and Princes St gardens for
those who'd payed big bucks for 'gold tickets', which was irritating, but then most of the true festive spirit was in the boisterous crowd milling about on the street, anyway. Everybody was in the spirit, and most dressed to the nines or in silly costumes. And the attendance levels from the Antipodeans! I lost count of the number of guys in kilts that I hugged or wished a happy New Year to, only to hear them reply in an Aussie accent. At one point somebody was yelling "Aussie! Aussie! Aussie!" (was it me?) and getting that good ol' familiar "Oi! Oi! Oi!" reply. I'd have preferred to be surrounded by true Scottish hunks in kilts, yelling whatever in that lovely Scottish burr, but it was the next best thing.
I can't say that the entire night was crystal clear. Things got a wee bit hazy. I know it was a fantastic vibe that permeated the crowd, and that I was happy to be there. I remember our group getting split up and fruitlessly trying to find the other half, which was a longer waste of time than I should have committed to. I remember the girls having to go
to the port-a-loos, which were in one of the side streets, and the insanity of that toilet crush....everybody pushing and squashing and sneaking in, which started a few near-fistfights with those who'd been waiting forever and refused to see another cutting the line. (I also passionately hate people who do that - cut in, that is. Who do they think they are?). I remember literally holding one of the girls up as she lost the power in her legs and was repeatedly ill for what seems the longest time - all the while shuffling forward when necessary and trying to stop those behind from squashing us to death. What a nightmare that was. I deposited the girl with her friends once we'd escaped, and said an impatient farewell - I had better things to do than deal with that.
Before I knew what had happened, it was almost midnight, and everybody was screaming out the countdown. I barely had enough time to stake out a cute guy before the kissing started. I'd unfortunately ended up in the firing range of two Greek fools with shaken champagne bottles who were trying to empty it out over the crowd. I did
a quick side-step and was lassoed around the neck by a beefy forearm, then snogged by the not-so-bad owner of that forearm before being released back into the wild again. Stupified with drink and suprise, I managed to get a kiss from cutie before remembering all the icky infections and so forth that one can catch from such activities. The next few comers got cheek kisses or a hug, and then everybody calmed down long enough to actually watch the fireworks overhead.
The older, younger and less adventurous partiers drifted off soon after that. I headed for one of the stages and danced in the still-heaving throng to some pretty fantastic music, until the band packed it in. Then it was on to the next source of music, and so forth, until the street was about half a full as it had been and the organisers were basically telling us to bugger off. It would have been nice to go to a club, but by then the alcohol was turning nasty in my stomache and I couldn't be bothered going alone. So I stumbled back to bed and was asleep by 3am. Absolutely pathetic.
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