Small black fine line tattoo of a whisk on the side of a person's neck, below a red bandana, with the face not shown.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Whisk tattoo on the side of the neck

Fine line · Neck · Black and grey · Photo

A small tattoo of a whisk with a short wooden handle sits on the side of the neck, close to the ear. The outline is a thin, dark black line with light grey shading inside the wire loops. The photograph is taken from behind and shows the person's ginger hair, a red paisley bandana and a fine chain necklace, with the face not visible.

Fine line Neck

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lift in Hollins House had been out since Tuesday, so Mrs Okafor's cake tins came up the eleven flights in my arms, one stacked on another, and by the ninth floor I had decided I was never carrying a Victoria sponge to anyone again. The whisk was the only thing I'd remembered to bring, rattling in my coat pocket against my keys. Dad's whisk, its wooden handle worn pale where his thumb always went.

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Every stairwell on that estate smelt of bleach and somebody else's Sunday dinner. I knocked on 11C with my elbow. Nobody answered, so I let myself in the way Dad had shown me, with the spare key he'd cut from a bent coat hanger, and found the kitchen window steamed white and a pan of custard catching on the hob. Mrs Okafor was asleep in her chair with the radio murmuring the shipping forecast, Dogger, Fisher, German Bight, like a rosary being counted.

I stirred the custard until it loosened, the wire loops sweeping gold through the pan. Her eyes opened when the spoon clinked against the side. "Your father would have whisked it by hand," she said. "He never trusted machines in a kitchen." "He never trusted anything that didn't need a thumb on it," I said, and she laughed until she coughed and had to be patted on the back.

The lift was working again by the Friday, and I rode it up to my own flat with the whisk back in my pocket. Dad's custard had always been too thin, and mine usually came out lumpy, but Mrs Okafor ate two bowls and said nothing about either. Through the open window the shipping forecast drifted up from somebody's radio, sea areas going round in the dark like a tide that never quite reached the shore.