Close view of a wrist with typewriter-style lettering reading I'm with Amanda's Bachelorette Party and a black anchor with a red rope, placed on the forearm near the wrist.

Bachelorette party anchor on a wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

The image shows a hand raised against a plain grey background, with gold nail polish and a tattoo on the inner wrist. The design is a block of typewriter-style lettering, with the name in pink and the rest in black, next to a black anchor wrapped in a red rope. The tattoo looks like a temporary transfer, and the lines are crisp with flat colour and no visible shading.

Lettering Forearm Anchor Rope Lettering Drink

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

By the second round the lettering on Maggie's wrist had started to sweat off, and nobody had yet bought her a drink. The sheet of transfers had promised a weekend's worth of nonsense, and the girls had pressed them on in the minibus outside a services near Ipswich, cackling over the typewriter font that made everything sound like a ransom note. I'm with Amanda's bachelorette party. If I'm lost, please buy me a drink. Nobody had thought about what would happen when that message reached a harbour bar full of men in orange oilskins who had never once been lost in their lives.

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Dennis Tulley had fished out of Lowestoft for forty years and read the wrist with the patience of a man reading the shipping forecast. He turned her arm to the light and sounded out every word. 'Lost,' he said. 'Well, you've come to the right harbour for that. Half of us are still at sea in our heads.' He bought her a rum and a half, then bought the girls the same, and told them the anchor was the only honest thing on the arm, because it was the only thing there that meant staying put.

The rest of the night went the way these nights do, with a karaoke machine, a lost handbag and a row about a bridesmaid's shoes. Maggie walked out at closing time into a fog that had rolled in off the North Sea, and for a while she was lost in earnest, until a small orange light bobbed up the quay and Dennis's voice came out of the murk, slow, as if he had all night to find her.

At the hotel she scrubbed at the lettering under the basin tap, the way the packet said not to. The pink Amanda's went first, then the black words, and the anchor held on longest, its red rope bleeding faintly into the water and running down the plughole like a line let go from the quay.