Traditional style colour tattoo of a champagne bottle with a popping cork and the words No Troubles Just Bubbles on a banner, with red flowers, on a forearm.

Champagne bottle with banner on a forearm

Traditional · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A colour tattoo of a green champagne bottle with a red foil neck and a cork popping out of the top, with pink bubbles rising from it. A purple banner wraps around the bottle reading NO TROUBLES JUST BUBBLES, and two red flowers with green leaves sit at either side. Bold black outlines and solid fills in green, red and pink give the design a classic flat, saturated look against lightly tanned skin.

Traditional Forearm Bubble Banner Lettering Flower Leaves

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The cork has been in the cold longer than the cider barrels, and when it finally goes it cracks off the rafters of the cattle shed hard enough to set Mrs Ferris's dog barking across the lane. You are still gripping the bottle with both hands, the green glass slick with frost, while Tom laughs so hard he has to sit down on an upturned feed bucket.

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Your grandfather bought the bottle the winter the dairy price fell through the floor, and he hid it behind the seed sacks with a note tucked under the neck that said NOT YET. It has survived two floods, a rat that chewed through the label, and the summer the silage clamp caught fire. Nobody ever agreed on what yet was waiting for. Tom reckons it was waiting for someone to stop worrying about the bank.

The stove ticks in the corner of the kitchen. Snow is piling against the pen gates, and the ewes have gone quiet in the straw. You pour into chipped mugs that don't match, and the foam climbs over your knuckles and makes Tom swear. He lifts his mug and says the old line, no troubles, and you answer with the rest of it, just bubbles, the way your grandfather always did when the rain came sideways into the yard.

When the bottle is empty you walk out into the blue dark and tip the last of it into the frozen water trough, where the fizz rises through the thin skin of ice in tiny pale threads. Breath steams from your mouth. Somewhere in the far barn a lamb bleats, and you toast the March lambing with the bottle's empty neck, which is as close to a promise as anyone on this farm has ever made.