Colourful watercolour-style tattoo of the Cheshire Cat's grinning face in pink, green and blue on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Watercolour Cheshire Cat on a forearm

Forearm · Colour · Photo

A grinning Cheshire Cat face with wide turquoise eyes sits at the centre of the design, with a green head, pink ears and whiskers. Soft pink, blue and green washes bleed outwards behind the cat, with black splatter and a thin black streak running above and below it. The image is a close, straight-on photograph of the forearm against a plain background.

Forearm Cheshire cat Cat Smile Watercolour splash

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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 lamp on your cap has been guttering since the lower gate, and when the seam pinches down to a yard of black you hear the chuckle before anything else. It is low and sly, the sound a man makes when he knows the price of a thing and is not telling. Then the grin arrives, all teeth and no body, hanging in the coal dust a foot from your face. Wide turquoise eyes. A green head with pink ears. Blue and violet smoke curling off it like breath on a cold morning.

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Dai says it is firedamp and the men see things when they are tired. But the cat does not blink out the way a flame does. When you crawl towards it, it lets you come, and it asks in a voice like Mrs Pryce's from the chapel choir which way is up. You tell it up is the way you came in. It laughs, delighted, and says the third prop on the Number Two heading has been sweating since Tuesday and will give at the change of shift. It adds that no one on the surface will believe a collier who has been talking to a grin.

You believe it. You tell the overman, Gwyn Hopkin, who spits and calls you soft. You go back to the face anyway and chalk a cross on the prop, and the grin stays on the wall beside the mark until the cage is called. At half past two, with the afternoon shift still below, the third prop goes with a crack like a rifle shot, and the roof comes down where the men would have been standing.

Gwyn buys you a pint and does not say thank you. That night, when you unroll the oilcloth in your kitchen, there is a smile drawn in pink chalk along the edge of your dinner plate, and a green cat's head looking up from the bread tin. You cannot say for certain which of you drew it.