Black lettering tattoo reading don't panic in a typewriter-style font across the inner wrist of a forearm, with green crystal beads in the foreground.

Don't panic lettering on an inner wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo spells out the phrase don't panic in a serif typewriter-style font, with the apostrophe set above the line between the n and t. The lines are crisp and solid black, with a slightly softer edge where the ink has spread into the skin. The lettering runs diagonally across the inner wrist, with a cluster of green crystal beads hanging over the lower left of the frame against a warm, dimly lit background.

Lettering Forearm Text Quote Typewriter font

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The typewriter has stuck on the letter t again, and Mrs Pryce is standing in the doorway of the barn with the order of service in one hand and a glass of fizz in the other, looking at you as though you personally designed the font. You prise the carriage free with a butter knife, tap the keys, and the words come out in their flat, serif, slightly guilty type: don't panic. Someone has hung a sign above the bar in the very same letters, so the whole room seems to be repeating it to itself.

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The chandelier over the top table was borrowed from a church hall in Ludlow, and it swings every time the side door bangs. Its green glass octagons catch the strip lights and throw small bruised colours across the white cloths and the bride's ivory shoes. Nobody notices you moving underneath it with a roll of gaffer tape and a pair of nail scissors, which is the great advantage of being the one person in the marquee with no job description.

Gareth, the best man, has lost his speech. He is sure he left it in the pocket of the jacket he hung in the cloakroom, but the cloakroom is full of uncles, and the speech turns out to be folded into a paper aeroplane on the windowsill of the gents. You retrieve it, flatten it on the bonnet of a borrowed Volvo, and read the first line aloud to him. It is a joke about sheep, and it is terrible, and he laughs so hard he has to sit down on an upturned crate.

At half past ten the lights dim and the bride's father stands to speak. You stay at the back with the last sheet still warm from the machine. Tucked beneath the hymn list is the line you typed twice, don't panic, the apostrophe sitting neatly above the gap, and you realise nobody in the room will ever read it except you. You fold it into your jacket pocket and go to find the cake knife.