No Regrets script on the ribs

Mam says you've stopped answering the door to anyone from Hartlepool, so I'm writing this down instead, the way you taught me, in careful joined-up hand with the loops done properly. I've had the lettering from Mr Thewlis at the top of Church Street. He charged me four shillings and told me the capitals had to lean like they were walking into a wind, which I thought a very odd thing for a tattooist to say until he showed me the sketch.

You asked what I'm having done. Two words, and I know what you'll say. You'll say the tide doesn't care what a girl puts on her ribs, and you'll be right, but I've decided it is none of the tide's business.

The truth is I left the pier dance on the Saturday with a man called Dennis Orr whose hands were cold and whose manners were colder, and I walked home alone past the chip shop with my shoes in my hand. Nobody saw me cry. On the Monday I took the money out of the tea caddy and sat down in Thewlis's chair, and I didn't flinch once, not even when the needle found the bone.

So when you come up at Easter, don't look at me like I've made a mistake. Look at the ink. It's the only thing I've ever chosen all by myself, and it won't wash off in the canal.

Your loving sister, Edie