Sir
The young lady, twenty-something, ahead of me in the supermarket queue bends over her trolley to unload. The usual expanse of bare skin is revealed, punctuated by a hint of buttock cleavage.
I cast my gaze up to inspect the ceiling, but wait! Something is amiss. I look again and there it is (or isn’t). The flesh on display is devoid of decoration.
My dilemma? Should tell her that her tattoo has fallen off, or have I just spotted a rare member of the species; the un-tattooed twenty something woman?
Yours faithfully
Surprised of Swindon
The Voice of the Bloke at the Back 