As Shakespeare wrote, or perhaps it was Ernie Wise, parting is such sweet sorrow.
And when you’ve got the other half’s name tattooed on your person, it’s a right pain to boot.
Such is the awkward situation in which Cheryl Cole, nee Tweedy, nee her off The X Factor, finds herself this weekend. As she contemplates an Ashley-free future, maybe taking comfort in the thought of smaller mobile phone bills, there’s a particularly pressing issue on her mind. Or rather, on her neck. Ink. A whole bottle of it, spelling out “Mrs C”.
What was she thinking? Doubtless the same as a lot of young women who think tats are anything but tatty. Perhaps it’s an age thing, but I’ve never understood the allure. Having a tattoo done used to a be rite of passage for working class men; now it’s hip for everyone under 25, whatever their postcode in life, to be branded.
For branding is what it is. Cutesy tattoos such as flowers and dolphins are for cutesy girls; fierce tribal designs are like a porcupine’s spikes, used by the vulnerable to warn off those who might come too close. Having a partner’s name inked into your skin? A clear sign of trying too hard. Might as well let them microchip you.
Herald
