Small colour tattoo of a blue police box with yellow windows on the outside of an ankle, against a carpet.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Blue police box tattoo on an ankle

Ankle · Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows a blue police box with a lantern-style roof, a small light on top, and yellow windows at the upper corners of the doors. The panels are shaded in lighter and darker blues to give the box some volume, and the outlines are dark and fairly crisp. It sits centrally on the outer ankle and lower leg, with the foot and a carpeted floor filling the rest of the frame.

Ankle Police box Tardis

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mrs Pargeter sets the key on the hall mat between your shoes and the umbrella stand, as though it were any other key, and tells you the blue box at the bottom of the garden is yours for the week if you can get its door open. Nobody has managed it since the war. The paint peels in curls like old wallpaper, and the little lamp on its roof has not lit in living memory. Gulls walk the gutters above you, and beyond the promenade railings the sea is grey and smells of diesel and chips.

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You go down the garden anyway after tea, because the rain has stopped and the lounge smells of wet dog. The lock turns with a cough. Inside, the air is cold and faintly sweet, like a cupboard of old library books. Your torch finds a console of brass levers, a glass column taller than a man, and a corridor that should not fit inside a shed however you measure it. You count your paces. Twelve. Then twelve more, and the walls have moved closer together, as if they are listening.

You pull the lever nearest your hand because it is the only one that looks as though it has been waiting to be pulled. The floor gives a long, low sigh. When you step back out, the garden has gone, and so has the boarding house. You are standing on a prom in the wrong sort of light, and the gulls overhead are calling in a voice you almost recognise.

A boy in a cap is waving at you from the railings with both arms, the way people wave at a train they have been meeting for years. Behind him, the blue box stands on the shingle, its lamp lit for the first time in a century, and the kettle whistle from Mrs Pargeter's kitchen drifts down the beach, rather late.