Colour tattoo of a silver teapot, teacup and red roses with green leaves and gold scrollwork on the upper arm, in a neo-traditional style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Teapot, teacup and red roses on upper arm

Neo-trad · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows a silver teapot with gold trim at the centre, surrounded by three red roses with green leaves. A smaller teacup sits lower left, linked to the design by gold scrollwork and green stems. Bold colour, smooth shading and dark outlines give it a neo-traditional look, shown on a bare upper arm and shoulder.

Neo-trad Botanical Upper arm Shoulder Teapot Teacup Rose Leaves Scrollwork Flower

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The kettle has gone again, so I am writing this at the scullery table with my coat still on. Your grandfather would have laughed. He always said the silver pot at Hollin Court made better tea than any man in Lancashire, and he was right, though I never told him the pot was the reason I stayed on as housekeeper after the war. Mrs Ashby's roses had died back to bare sticks that winter, the walls were black with frost, and still every morning the pot stood on the sill with three red roses opened against its gold trim, as if someone had cut them that night and forgotten to tell us.

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The little cup was Miss Ivy's. She came up from the village with a cough and carried the cup down to the lodge every afternoon for the orphan boy there, and the pot never once refused to fill it. When the cough took her in March, the cup went cold on its saucer and the gold on its handle dulled to brass. I put it at the back of the cupboard and did not look at it for a year.

Last Tuesday the lodge boy knocked, sixteen now and sorry for himself, asking for tea because nobody else would give him any. I could not find the cup. Then it was in my hand before I knew I had fetched it, and the pot, which had sat silent since spring, began to hum on the range the way it used to. Overnight the roses on the sill had opened wider. The boy has been back every day since, and so have I, though I cannot say which of us is minding the other.

I have stopped trying to explain it to the vicar. Come up at Easter and I will pour you a cup myself. Mind the third stair; it creaks for nobody but the living.

Your loving Nan, Edith