THE TATTOO SUIT

Every day in my £5.99 short sleeved white shirt with complimentary plain black tie, every day on the cramped Monday morning train, and every day walking through the crowded streets of London City, I notice them staring, judging me. The businessmen and women with their black and blue dotted ties and their £700 grey, pin stripped custom suits with the purple inner lining. They view me as an outcast, different, like an orange seal amongst a pack of greys. It isn’t the glare of the sun in the streets bouncing off of my bald head that makes them stare, nor my long grey yet discreetly tint brown beard that forms a striking resemblance between myself and the almighty Charles Darwin. No they stare because I ride those trains and walk those streets with arms covered in ink, a tattooed Darwin per say. My right arm is wrapped in spiralling tree branches from shoulder to wrist, where rotten bark turns to fresh. My inner right bicep reads The weak ones are there to justify the strong in honour of my love for rock music and Marilyn Manson (say what you mean the man’s good). Meanwhile a bold black crow graces my upper right shoulder, perching upon the rotten bark as it looks too conquer. Elegant and vibrant red roses fill my left arm; in honour of my mother Rose (may she rest in peace). Imbedded in that beautiful bouquet of roses lays a skeletons arm, which represents the passion I have for my career. For when I pull that white surgical doctors coat over my shoulders, covering my tattoos I am accepted, I am one of them. I too can appear to mask my guilt with the suffocation of a tightly knotted tie around my neck. I too could cover (as they do) a lack of talent with the help of high end clothing retailers, and cover up all of my bodies imperfections. But it shouldn’t come down to the clothes on our backs and the marks on our skins that define us because outside of this hospital, outside of this white surgical doctor’s coat I proudly wear my suit, my tattoo suit.