Black typewriter-style lettering reading peanut allergy across the inner wrist, with the last word cut off at the right edge of the frame.

Peanut allergy lettering on a wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The photo shows a wrist and part of the hand, with the words peanut allergy tattooed in a monospaced typewriter-style font across the inner wrist. The lettering is solid black ink with slightly soft edges, and the final word is cropped by the frame. The background is a plain pale wall, and the image is a simple close-up with the wrist filling most of the composition.

Lettering Forearm Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The generator coughs at half five, and you're already up on the trailer step with the sugar tins, because Mrs Ashdown has never let the Thursday set-up go to anyone who arrives late. The fair is pitched on the recreation ground at Harrowgate Fen, a dozen caravans in a horseshoe, the big wheel lit grey against the sky like a dead moon. Your cousin Tomas runs the hook-a-duck next door and sings tuneless Polish songs while he hammers down the canvas.

Keep reading

Mrs Ashdown keeps an old manual typewriter on the counter of the nougat stall, and every Friday she types the price cards on it, the letters punching through the card so the prices look official. Last week she typed a new one: NO NUTS ON THIS PITCH, in capitals that never quite line up. You asked why she bothered. She said the lads from the estate don't read anything they can't see from the road, and the mothers read everything twice.

Friday night a boy of about nine comes to the rail with a fistful of coins and a woman who keeps glancing at the gate. He wants the toffee apple with the red dust on it. You reach for the one on the back shelf, the one you wrap separately, and the woman's hand comes down over yours, quick and light. She taps the inside of her own wrist, then nods at the tin of brittle you'd pushed to the far end. You move it. You hadn't known until then that a fair had its own kind of memory.

Later, when the lights are off and the wheel has stopped turning, Mrs Ashdown squints at the card and types one more word beneath the rest. The key sticks, then clacks. You don't ask what it says. You already know the tin will stay at the back shelf, and that you'll be the one who remembers to move it.