Colour neo-trad tattoo on an upper leg showing four cartoon women in front of a yellow sunset and palm trees, with script beneath reading Thank you for being a friend.

Four cartoon women with palm trees on a thigh

Neo-trad · Thigh · Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows four illustrated women posed closely together, with a large orange sun behind them and green palm trees on either side. The bold black outlines and flat, saturated fills of pink, teal, yellow and red give it a cartoon look. A black script line runs along the bottom edge, and the composition is centred on the figures with the script beneath them.

Neo-trad Thigh Palm tree Sunset Script Lettering

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Rain had been coming down on Carrow Street Market since seven, and Maureen Fitch had given up on the awning. She stood in the gap between Stall Nine and the fishmonger's, counting thermoses, while Dot Harrigan shook a tartan umbrella over her cheese crates and swore at it softly. Ivy and Pearl were late, as they always were on wet Saturdays, which meant the four of them would have to squeeze under one canopy when they came.

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The four of them had held the same pitches for thirty-one years: Maureen with her secondhand paperbacks, Dot with jam and marrows, Ivy selling hand-knitted socks in colours nobody else would dare, Pearl doing teas from a battered urn. Nobody could say when they had started calling it the sunset corner, only that the light used to come gold through the glass roof of the old arcade, and the four of them would sit on upturned crates after closing and tell the same stories again. Pearl had lost her husband the winter before. Ivy had bought the van. Dot had once thrown a marrow at a councillor.

Ivy came splashing through the puddles at last, a flask in one hand and a soggy paper bag in the other. 'Don't start,' she said. 'The bus stopped on the bridge.' Pearl handed round the tea without a word, and they stood close together, shoulders touching, while the rain drummed on the tarpaulin overhead.

Maureen looked at the three of them, grey and gold and sensible in their coats, and thought of the sun that had never quite gone down on the arcade roof. 'Right,' she said. 'Same time next week, then. Rain or no rain.' Nobody argued. Dot cleared her throat and sang the first line of the old song, badly, and the others joined in under the dripping canvas until the fishmonger shouted for them to keep it down.