Small colour tattoo of a teacup with a pink rose, green leaves and a tea bag tag on the side of a finger, held by a gloved hand.

Teacup and rose on a finger

Hand · Colour · Photo

A small teacup sits on a green saucer, with a pink rose and green leaves painted across the cup and a tea bag tag hanging from the rim. The outlines are dark and even, and the fills are soft pastel pink, pale green and yellow. The tattoo is centred on the side of a finger, with a gloved hand holding the finger in the frame.

Hand Teacup Rose Saucer Leaves

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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

Nobody bought the big top in the end. Mr Asquith from the council wanted the car park for flats, so the tent came down in a wet grey heap in Saltcombe, and the Marvellini Family Circus became a rumour in the local paper. I kept the tea urn, the folding trestle, and one cup. It was Nan Ivy's cup, the one she poured from before every matinee, with its little paper tag hanging over the rim so the brew stayed honest. The saucer has a hairline crack now, and the rose on the side has faded from the colour of a boiled sweet to something closer to a pressed petal.

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Nan used to say a clown who couldn't sit still for four minutes over a cup of tea had no business under canvas. She'd make us wait while the water hit the boil, then lower the bag in by its string and count to a number only she knew. Ronnie the strongman drank his black, the trapeze girls took theirs with three sugars, and I was allowed one biscuit and a splash of milk once the tag had gone soggy. The whole ring smelled of it, sawdust and bergamot and wet canvas, long after the lions had gone off to a sanctuary in Wales.

Last week a woman from the estate agents rang about the trestle table, and while she waited on the phone she asked if the cup was for sale too. I said no before I'd thought about it. She laughed kindly and said, well, it's lovely, and I stood in my kitchen with the receiver tucked under my chin and realised I had been drinking my own tea in a chipped mug for months.

So I rinsed out Nan's cup, filled it from the kettle, and lowered the bag in by its string. I counted to the number only she knew. Then I sat down, folded my hands around the warmth, and waited for the applause that never comes for a good cup of tea.