Tuesday, August 02, 2005
The other day in queue at the post office (Ok, I must go off on a tangent about the Post Office in the UK. They are fabulous, well maintained lines, a large gift card section, in and out in minutes. The tellers are courteous and succinct. Perhaps I'm so easily amazed at the post offices here, because for three years I had to deal with French post offices, which reek of Gitane unfiltered cigarettes, have tellers as slow as syrup, and always contain an old man standing behind me in the queue that is coughing as if he has just escaped from the lung transplant wing of the nearest hospital.) and I saw a middle aged woman with a tattoo of an alcoholic beverage on her arm. Is it me, or does that seem a bit too dedicated to the drink? I mean, don't get me wrong, I enjoy downing my pints in the pub as much as the next guy, but to actually get branded for life with an image of a bubbly libation on your forearm just seems a step too far. I'm sure if my mother ever caught me with a tattoo like that, I'd be one step away from wearing a "Hello my name is" sticker on my chest in the basement of my local church.