Black and grey dotwork and fine line tattoo of a figure with a television for a head and a braided plait, on the thigh and leg, shown in two photographs.

Figure with a television head on a leg

Dotwork · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A girl in a jumper has a retro television set in place of her head, with a braid visible behind the screen, and her legs dangle down the leg. A single thin line trails from her feet towards the ankle. The television screen and jumper are shaded with stippled dots, while the outlines and legs are drawn in fine black line, and the tattoo is shown in two photographs of the same leg.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The officer at Dover waved the queue forward without looking up from his clipboard, and I was next, which meant I had to explain the thing in front of me. The girl had a television where her head should have been, a grey box with two knobs and a speaker grille, and her screen was speckled with the fine dots of old static. Her jumper hung to her knees. Her plaits fell down behind the glass like the rope on a church bell.

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"Anything to declare?" I asked, because that is the question, and because I had been waiting six years to ask someone a question I could answer with a stamp.

"Only the set," she said, in a voice that seemed to come from the speaker. A thin cord ran from her ankle, down the length of her, and across the tarmac behind her until it vanished under the coach. "It needs a wall that remembers the signal."

I turned her passport over. Her photograph was a snow-white square of nothing, the way they come out when the machine has been left on too long. On the television, very faintly, a picture was forming: the white cliffs behind us, then a harbour I didn't know, then the back of my own head bent over the desk. It was a half-second behind me, like a bad line on a call.

I stamped the page. The ink came out darker than it should. "Enjoy France," I said, and she nodded, and the cord went taut as she stepped away, pulling the little brass plug along the concrete like a child with a toy. I watched the screen until the coach doors shut on it, and for a moment I was certain it showed my hand reaching for the next passport before I had moved it.

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