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Yesterday involved some beer and conversations that rambled with ever increasing circularity as the drinking wore on and the evening continued and at some point we talked tattoos; two people with tattoos and one without. And earlier in the day a young man had cycled towards me – he swerved at the last minute – on his throat he had the most ornate tattoo of the face of an owl, so as he lifted his head the bird’s yellow eyes blazed from under his jawline, the beak sat squarely on his Adam’s apple, while the body of the bird disappeared in to his shirt. I wanted to ask whether his torso and arms continued the theme, if he were feathered in proportion and where were the talons, but he was gone before I could stop him…and he would likely have thought me quite strange.