I’d accidentally scratched myself; felt a hair tickling me under my shirt, and my goddamned nails are like razors, so I’d broken the skin. The scratch was bleeding, so I stuck a 3M Nexcare “tattoo” band-aid on it. Disney princesses or something; I didn’t look when I put it on and don’t know who it’s supposed to be. Anyway, it’s just a little bit of thin, transparent plastic with a design printed on it, and adhesive/small gauze pad on the back. They’re for kids, of course, but I think they’re cute. If you’re going to slice yourself open with your own fingernails, might as well make the result look pretty!

It’s laundry day, so I’d put on an old T-shirt that happens to have a V-neck, which left the band-aid visible. Nobody sees me anyway, so it didn’t matter. It took B. seven minutes and twenty-eight seconds to ask, “What’s that on your right breast?” I’d forgot about it, but knew what he meant, and explained. He didn’t seem fully convinced at first, but finally asked whether there was any ink-transfer to my skin involved, and I assured him there was not; not even temporarily. Then he says, “Puhhhh! Nice to hear. I was kind of worried.” It was absolutely everything I could do to keep from bursting into gales of laughter. Not because he didn’t understand what a “tattoo band-aid” was–if they exist there, I doubt he’d ever have seen them–but because I knew exactly what he’d been thinking. He knows very well that I think L.’s tattoos are awesome (I never mentioned the thing about the markers, though), and he knows I’ve had one (albeit largely ignored) for many, many years, so he was thinking, “She’s got one already, and she likes his…she’s getting more of her own. My god–she’ll end up looking just like him!” He’s never made a secret of thinking L. has too many tats, and apparently didn’t want me roaming about as a female version thereof. Still, I had to laugh at his almost wary reaction–I guess I have one more “mum” than I thought I did! He didn’t tell me not to get any more tattoos, and he did say it wasn’t any of his business how many tats L. has, or I have, but he did say, “I hope you won’t.” I probably won’t–mostly because I can’t be arsed–but it’s a good thing he didn’t go into bossy-mode and tell me “don’t”, or that’s exactly what I would have done, just to remind him that if I want to get “FUCK YOU” in 2″ Gothic letters across my forehead, that’s none of his business. As it was, though, it just made me laugh, and it didn’t make me angry at all because he meant well. I didn’t have the heart to say, “Oh, don’t worry, mum–I have no plans for more ink,” because that would have hurt his feelings, but I for damn-sure thought it! 😛