We spent most of Sunday discussing tattoos. Not in any academic way you understand. But in the context of our third daughter's wish to get inked.
She is in her early twenties and so is grown up enough to make her own decision; at least this is what we told ourselves as we looked at the proposed design.
Mrs M and I were married when we were twenty and back then we felt that we were old enough to make such a life-changing decision. Now, however, twenty-one seems still so very youthful.
And so it is that we gaze at the intricate autumn leaf pattern that will soon adorn our daughter's back and want to be both supportive and cautious at the same time.
We reminisced about our journey towards being married. The fact that we made our decision less than twelve months after beginning to court, (yes it once was called courting), amazed our girls and seemed to put the tattoo choice in some perspective.
Even so Mrs M couldn't resist suggesting that it might be better to have one that was a little smaller to start with but daughter number three was fully committed to the cause and was not for turning.
I was tempted to try a bit of reverse psychology and suggested that my bride had the same design done on her back in order to make a matching pair. I felt sure that this would put her off; after all they don't like to wear the same clothes as their mother never mind the same permanent body art. She saw through my test and so we moved on to discuss other matters.
Its not that I am against such things, in fact when done tastefully they can look rather good. It is just the sense of permanence that they suggest.
If you dye your hair bright pink then you can make a change with relative ease. If you grow a beard you are only one shave away from seeing you chin again.
Ink is for life; ask Robert Nesbitt. He is the Newcastle fan who had the image of footballer Andy Cole reproduced on his thigh only two days before his hero signed to join Manchester United.
There must be nothing worse than having an out-of-date design permanently placed on your epidermis. I suppose the only issue my daughter will face is that her autumn leaves might clash with summer.
A little later I suggested to my wife that I might get inked before my fiftieth birthday next year; joining in with the moment she asked me what I might have done. I thought for a while and then, in the light of my growing bald patch, my aching limbs, and my middle-aged spread, it occurred to me.
I will get a Tattoo of a Best Before Date on my forehead. If you are going to be out-of-date you might as well be upfront about it.
Inked - the old fashioned rebellion
Tattoo
Much to my daughters dismay I have never been one for taking too many risks with my appearance; in fact I take comfort in the simple idea that weekends are about t-shirts, in direct contrast to my weekdays, which contain shirts and ties.
Even when I was younger I watched as other lads got curly perms (think Kevin Keegan) and ear rings (think the lads on the fairground who could make standing on a moving ride look easy).
I toyed with the idea of going blond in an attempt at looking like Sting until a rather too honest friend pointed out that they could change my hair but not my face.
So I was left to take pride in my handle-bar moustache (think The Village People). When I grew it in the seventies it was at the end of a fad for facial hair. I had quite light locks and so it took me months to produce anything that could be seen by the naked eye. Looking back at old photos now I can see that it just appears to be two faint clumps of fluff on either side of my chin with very little on my upper lip.
So it is that, as I approach half a century (not out), I have decided to get a tattoo. Not a big brash one, just a small discrete symbol of my wish to be different, by being the same as other people. I recall meeting one larger than life girl who had a tattoo of David Beckham complete with his own miniature Tattoos; this is surely commitment to the cause when even your tattoos have tattoos.
My father-in-law (who, at eighty seven, has fought in seven world wars for the likes of youngsters like me) rolled his eyes and chuckled as I announced the news of my intent to be permanently marked.
He has a rather impressive military shield on his left forearm so I asked him how he came about having such artistry on his body. He told me that during the Second World War, when he was stationed in India, he and a mate had too much time and money available for such young lads away from home.
They had been for a night out and had more than their fair share of rocket fuel and so were feeling very brave. They arrived at the Tattooist just as he was getting ready to close but managed to talk them into staying for just two more jobs.
He agreed and they both selected a large and intricate emblem to go on their chests. The proprietor, however, was unable to stay in order to do two difficult pieces. He suggested that one of the lads should have a chest tattoo and the other should have one on his arm.
They were both a little disappointed but agreed to toss a coin to see who should have the glory of the chosen design. My father in law lost and, in his lubricated state, unhappily had to make do with the lesser offering.
The next morning things were a little different, as his army pal woke in pain to face a day's duty with a stinging reminder of their drunken episode.
Hearing granddad’s tale has made me take time to reconsider the idea of body art. So what I am supposed to do to mark my journey through middle age.
My third daughter settled the matter by deciding that she wanted to get her own emblem carefully inked on her wrist and has accused me of wanting to copy her; then rest of the girls joined in to say that my idea of body art at my age was all wrong.
So I am left with choosing either blonde streaks or a curly perm; or perhaps, seeing I have a receding hairline, growing my hair long and wearing it in a ponytail, pulled back so that it looks like it has been caught in a lift door and is stretching my forehead back (think Francis Rossi from Status Quo).
