Black linework tattoo of a police box outline on the upper arm, with a block of capitalised lettering quoting nine hundred years of time and space.

Police box quote on upper arm

Lettering · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows an outlined police box on the inner upper arm, with a block of text inside it arranged in stacked lines of capitalised serif lettering. The linework is clean and uniform in black ink, with no shading or colour. The tattoo fills most of the frame, and the photo is taken at a slight angle against a plain wall.

Lettering Upper arm Police box Lettering Quote Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Every Saturday the Crown Assembly Rooms at Hebden Moor filled with fiddles and the stamp of boots, and every Saturday Mags Tulliver stood by the cloakroom hatch counting coats. The winter the box arrived, nobody had booked it. It stood on the sprung boards by the stage with its lamp unlit, tall and dark blue, and the caller said it must be the council's, left over from a pantomime. The band tuned around it. Nobody could open the door.

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Old Ned Fairbairn, who had mended the hall's roof for forty years, put his palm flat on the panelling and said it was warm as a loaf. He said it hummed in a key a fiddler would not tune to. When the dancing ended at midnight the box was still there, and a thin tall man in a crumpled grey coat stepped out of it with a paper bag of chips and asked whether anyone had seen his umbrella.

He sat down with Mags on the bench by the hatch and talked to her for an hour about coats. He had lost, he said, a great many coats in a great many places, and he had never once minded, because a coat was only a coat. What he minded was the people who had lent him one. He asked her name and used it three times before the hour was out, the way a man does when he means to keep it.

When the lamp on the box flickered he stood, brushed off his sleeves and thanked her for the chips, which he had not eaten. At the door he turned round. "Nine hundred years of time and space," he said, "and I have never met anyone who wasn't important. Mind the cloakroom, Margaret. Somebody is going to need that umbrella." Then the box was empty boards again, and the caller swore the umbrella was hanging on Mags's hook, though it had not been there at ten.