I’ve had a tattoo for over 18 years now – a fact which makes me feel positively ancient. In all that time I have never once regretted having it. Until this week.

Before I had it done I had only seen the fuzzy, badly drawn, sailor style tats. Then I saw the beautiful tattoos a friend of mine had covering both arms. I was fascinated by the  intricate and brightly covered carp swimming around John-boy’s forearms. It was actual art. On his body. I had to have one.

Once the decision was made, it took me ages to choose the right place to get mine done – I researched not only the cleanliness of various tattoo parlours but also the artistic style of the artists. I bottled out several times before I finally did it.

I was thrilled by the art but I also liked the people’s reactions to the large dragon on my shoulder – there was still a shock factor. When I spent the following summer in Italy I recall being asked many times if I’d been to prison (the answer eventually became “yes – for assault and battery on an Italian chap who wouldn’t take no for an answer….”).

Since then tattoos have become so much more mainstream – you  can get them done everywhere. Even Selfridges offers them now (although it eacapes me why you’d have one done there – I mean it isn’t very rock and roll getting tattooed in Selfridges). As a result of the increased demand (and I think the lack of limits on who can set themselves up as a tattoist, the quality of artwork is going downhill. There are some amazing artists out there whose medium is tattoo ink but the vast majority can barely manage colour by numbers. I’ve seen some shocking examples.

The part that has bothered me this week is that it feels like EVERYONE has them. I was at a class in town (OK so it was a trapeze class so possibly not an accurate cross section of the population) and every single girl had one. Some were the tramp stamp sort, some just some words on the inside of the forearm but it feels like everyone other than trainee nuns has some sort of drawing on their skin.

I blame Victoria Beckham.  She’s done for tattoos what chavs did for Burberry. No longer exclusive but common. Urgh.

I just spent a few days last week in sunny San Diego. It was great to go out to have a choice of fabulous food ( and eat without running the danger of actually turning into a burger). One night I ate the best fish and chips I’ve had in yonks served with salt and vinegar 🙂 washed down with Rauchbier. The next night I went with some trepidation to a Hawaiian fusion restaurant. I’m still not sure what the Hawaiian was fused with (some Japanese in there, maybe French…?) although mercifully it didn’t involve sticking pineapple on everything….

Anyway, to round off a fabulus meal of Ahi Tuna and sushi I chose the restaurant’s signature “Chocolate Souffle Martini”. It sounds SO wrong but OMG it was amazing. Imagine a black forest gateaux distilled into a single rather alcoholic drink and you’d be close. Mmmmm.I’ve already planned my next trip back.

One of the *ahem* unusual places that we drove through on the road trip was Huron, South Dakota. This small town has only one distinguishing feature – that’s the World’s Largest Pheasant (yes that’s right a 28 foot tall, 22 ton pheasant) perched on top of the Dakota Inn. Can you imagine sleeping in the room underneath? You’d be expecting that crazy bird to come crashing through the ceiling any minute.

I did something today that I’ve never done before. I was out running an errand at lunchtime with the roof off. When I got back in the car – I closed the roof and put the aircon on.  That never happens unless it is actually raining. I was wondering what was wrong with me (apart from a boiled bottom and scorched thighs from the leather seats) until I looked at the temperature. Ok car temperature guages are always a litte off – but given that it read 103 degrees I think we can safely say that it was scorchio.

Actually it has been great to have a summer for a change. Yes it does get muggy and there’s the odd monsoon but on the whole it has been warm/ hot and sunny fairly reliably. So much so I bought a BBQ this weekend. Before you ask – not one of the gas powered* oh the horror* monstrosities that basically are your kitchen hob only outdoors. I bought another one of those pleasingly plump Webers. Now if I could only find some halloumi in this cheese deprived country I coul dmake my favourite kebabs.

Something that irritates me on a daily basis is the loos here. Firstly, the fact that they are known as restrooms is plain ridiculous (the LAST  thing you’re going to want to do in there is hang around or rest).

The other thing that I dislike intensly about pulic toilets is the big gaps around the doors. Firsly the cubicles themselves are at least a foot off the ground. Then you have approximately a 1cm gap all the way around the doors. So you are sat there and you can see people walking past. Not good. I understand that in railway stations, bars and clubs etc you are going to want to discourage drug taking and other dodginess, but what’s the excuse at the office?

To make matters worse, despite the lack of privacy – the normally very prudish Yanks  have no problems with holding telephone conversations whilst sat in their non-private traps. They talk through the flush and everything! Just. so. Wrong.