Colour neo-traditional tattoo of a blue TARDIS police box among planets, stars and swirling orange rings on the upper arm and shoulder.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

TARDIS and planets on a shoulder

Neo-trad · Shoulder · Colour · Photo

A blue TARDIS police box sits at the centre of a cosmic scene with a glowing yellow sun, ringed planets, small stars and compass-style sparkles. The design uses bold black outlines with smooth shading and bright colour, with orange and yellow swirls framing the box against a purple nebula. The tattoo covers the upper arm and shoulder, and the image is a close crop of the skin with no face visible.

Neo-trad Shoulder Upper arm Tardis Police box Planet Star Nebula Space Sun

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mind the lift, love, it sulks after two. Pull that chair over, the one with the good wheel. Right. You asked how a sensible woman ends up sitting in a lift lobby with a flask instead of walking the wards, and I'll tell you, because the ward's gone soft and quiet and nobody will want the morphine trolley before half four.

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It was the night of the big storm in the winter of seventy-nine, when the generator on the west wing coughed and died. Sister Ruth Pardoe went out to the bins behind the old chapel for a bit of peace, and there in the frost stood a blue box with a little lamp on its roof, the sort you'd see outside a police station in an old film. Its windows were black, but it hummed the way a fridge does when you're trying to sleep. She put her hand on the door. It was warm as a new loaf.

Inside there was no ceiling. There was a floor of brass and glass, a great pale sun turning above a console, and ringed planets sliding past like dinner plates on a conveyor. A thin man in a loose coat was humming over a lever. He looked up and said she had the look of someone who'd been on nights too long, and asked whether she'd like to see the far end of time. She said she'd like to see the end of her shift. He laughed, gave a dial a little wiggle, and the next thing she knew the clock above the nurses' station said ten past six, the storm had gone, and she was holding a cold cup of tea.

She never told anyone for forty years, and then only me. What I've never forgotten is the handover sheet she wrote that morning. Under 'patients: stable' she'd drawn four little compass stars in blue biro, and beside them, in her fine round hand, 'the sun was a good colour.' Now drink your tea before it sets.