the baggy trousered misanthropist

missives issued from the lair

 
When I was sixteen years old, I really, really, really wanted a tattoo as well. I understand and empathise with your feelings completely.

But cool your boots, man. At the time, I thought Ian Astbury (lead singer of The Cult, seen above sporting large hat, headscarf and improbable white leggings) was the cutting edge of sophistication and sartorial elegance and, given half a chance, would have covered myself in artwork reflecting this.

My point, as Ian succinctly (and may I say, artfully) articulates, is that the choices one makes in one’s teens don’t necessarily stand the test of time.

I don’t expect you to get it. I didn’t listen to the warnings either, and just waited until I was eighteen, when I could legally cover myself with ill-conceived crap.

I just thought I’d mention it so when you’re whinging about it in ten years time, I have my smugness on record. This is my compensation for being a dinosaur.

Lots of Love, Auntie.

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