Black and grey tattoo of a sloth face with the words I'd Rather Be Napping above and below it, on the inner wrist.

Sloth face with text on a wrist

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close view of a wrist showing a sloth face in black ink, with the words I'd Rather Be Napping set above and below the image. The sloth is drawn with soft shading that fades toward the edges, while the lettering uses bold, solid black sans-serif type. The image is in black and grey, with the skin and a grassy background filling the frame.

Forearm Sloth Face Text Lettering

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The proving cabinet hums at four, and by half past I have stopped pretending the dough is my enemy. Mo says I look like something that crawled out of a sack of flour, which is fair, because I have been at this since the vans rattled past the bins on Harrow Street. Nobody who buys a loaf at seven wants to know how it got made at three.

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There is a slow man who comes in on Thursdays. He is a retired signwriter called Desmond Pike, and he orders one teacake and sits by the window for an hour without moving. Last week he asked what I'd do with a whole day off. I told him I'd sleep until the pigeons gave up. He laughed so hard he had to hold the counter, then tapped the sugar bowl and said a good baker is a lazy baker who has learned to be quick at the right moments.

Mo chalked his line on the board that week, in capitals, beside the price of the seeded tins. Desmond read it and said the lettering wanted to be permanent. A month later he came in with a sketch on the back of a docket pad: a sleepy face hanging from a branch, two heavy eyes, and the words above and below like a sign hung over a door. He tucked it into my apron pocket and said, Don't rush the drawing either.

Some mornings, when the first tray comes out and the window goes grey, I press a copy of that little face onto the paper sleeves before the shutters go up. I think of Desmond in his chair by the glass, eyes shut, finally getting the rest he argued for.