A few years ago a special birthday was looming. One with a 0 in the title. I was seized with an urge to do something rebellious and daring.

I don’t really do rebellious and daring, so this called for some serious thinking. It needed to be legal. I wanted it to be something that would surprise people who knew me well. Family constraints meant a round the world gap year was out of the question. I am too chicken to do anything physically dangerous (cross out parachuting or abseiling). I don’t like being cold and wet, so anything outward bound style was eliminated.

I decided to get a tattoo. Yes, I know that in fifty years the stereotypes have totally reversed. Fifty years ago if you lived in Western Europe and had a tattoo it was a pretty good bet that you had some kind of strong affinity for the sea. These days everyone has one. Posh, not posh, big, small, professional, manual labourer – everyone has one. Except for me.

I started keeping a sneaky eye out in the gym changing rooms, and once I had convinced my fellow gym goers that I was not a perverted stalker they were happy to share their tattoos, their advice and point me in the direction of a good artist. One woman had a lovely delicate design on an ankle, which I admired, and then took off her top to show me that her arms and back were completely covered. She told me that she was a lawyer and had to wear long sleeve tops at work because her body art definitely would not go down well with clients.

I gave the design and location much thought. I decided on a kangaroo – it’s unusual, but pertinent to me, and that I would have the design on my backside. I wanted it to be in a location that nobody except me ever had to see (although hello, doc) so that if I hated it / changed my mind it would be out of sight, out of mind. My design, my choice – I wasn’t going to inflict it on others.

I took as much information on board as possible and headed to the studio. I had been guided by the gym goers that the studio would help me choose a design and then book me an appointment for some weeks hence. With a dry mouth I approached the counter. A slack jawed, gum chewing girl looked at me blankly. I stumbled through my explanation – want a tattoo, would like a kangaroo design, ideally on my bum.

The slack jawed gum chewer opened her mouth wider. “JOHN!”, she yelled at top volume, “HOW MUCH FOR A KANGAROO ON A BUM?”. There was a muffled shout from the next room. “How big is it?” came the reply. I’ll pause here so you can insert your own joke.

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Back with me? We agreed a price and a design, and I asked when I could return to get the deed done. Slack Jaw paused. “Do it now if you like.” Oh God. I wasn’t expecting that. I was expecting to go away for three weeks and probably chicken out. Not now. No easy get out for me.

Five minutes later I was on the couch being tattooed. The artist convinced me to have the design on my hip, as it would be less painful and I was completely up for that. It occurred to me half way through that I hadn’t actually checked the design he was using – he could have been tattooing anything down there. I could have ended up with arrows pointing anywhere. Fortunately, it was a kangaroo and no, it wasn’t too painful, except for the pointy tail bit, which was a bit sore. It’s not exactly child birth in the pain stakes though.

About fifteen minutes later I was the proud and permanent owner of Skippy. And what was the reaction from people when they found out? From The Hub: jaw dropping shock. Yes, I had told him I was going to do it. Had he believed me? Nope, so there you go – I can still surprise him after all these years. From my Mother: silence, followed by a sniffy, “Well, you were perfect when we made you”. From friends: surprise all round. Mission accomplished then.

A month later, I was sitting with a group of friends discussing what we had done to celebrate our significant birthdays. “Well”, said one brightly, ” for my birthday I learnt to roller blade”. Bugger, I thought. That was a really good idea that didn’t involve permanent mutilation (in the words of my mother). I shared what I had done. Silence. The one friend piped up “Well, at least when they pull your headless corpse from the river, they’ll be able to identify you!”. Thank goodness for that.

Image courtesy Subhash Chandra