Colourful watercolour-style tattoo of a wristwatch with red, blue and pink splashes and drips, sitting on the inner wrist and forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Watercolour watch tattoo on a wrist

Forearm · Colour · Photo

A wristwatch with a dark strap and a clock face is tattooed on the inner wrist, with numerals and small star shapes visible on the dial. Loose splashes and drips of red, pink, blue and orange ink spread up the forearm from the watch, giving a painted, watercolour look. The photograph is taken at a slight angle against a blurred background that includes a painted face.

Forearm Watch Clock face Watercolour Splash Numeral Star Drip

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Old Mags Pardoe kept the key to the clock in her apron pocket, the way her mother had before her. The Wrenfield dance hall had a clock painted on its back wall in blue and red, with numerals that ran in the wrong order, and every Saturday it ran a quarter hour fast whenever the fiddler struck up a reel. Men came in from the lime kilns with their boots still white. Nobody asked the clock to be right.

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One March, a tinsmith's boy named Edwin Carrow came to mend the strap of a watch his uncle had left him. He stood at the back wall and watched the couples spin until the splashes of paint on the plaster seemed to run down onto the floorboards. 'It isn't the hour that's stopped,' Mags told him, 'it's the dancing that keeps it going.' He didn't believe her. When he tried to set his watch to the hall's time, the hands turned backwards under his thumb.

On the last reel he asked Nell Harrow to dance. She laughed and said the night was over at eleven, but the fiddler played on. The clock hand jumped a notch, then another. When the lamps guttered, the room was full of red and blue light that dripped from the ceiling like wet ink, and Edwin found his own wrist stopped at the same quarter past twelve as the wall.

Mags unlocked the case at dawn and set the hands right with one turn of the key. Edwin walked home with the watch ticking against his wrist and paint still running in colours up his arm, and he never again asked the hour in Wrenfield.