Body Art, Polish-style

It's Tuesday. Monday just didn't exist this week. There was certainly a Sunday, oh yes. But then, after that Sunday, there was a whole other Sunday! Imagine. Two Sundays.
The weather was glorious on Saturday. I know that because I was outside for most of the day wandering around Camden trying my best to feel relaxed and calm like everybody else. I plastered an 'it's the weekend' smile across my face and tried to stop thinking about huge needles coming to rip out my soul, and concentrate on the beautiful jewellery, various food stalls and not getting my bag nicked by dodgy Camden-ites, like everyone else. But the fear? It was omnipresent. It danced around in my brain singing at the top of its voice, whilst poking me with it's jabby fingers everytime I so much as picked up a pretty bracelet or gazed longingly at the crepes with Nutella.
To be honest, when three o'clock came around it was a bit of a relief. I understood totally that the anticipation of an event is usually much more agonizing than the event itself, for example when I got my nose pierced, my finals, my degree results, sex. (Okay, sex? Not sure why my fingers chose to type that but I'm sure it actually provides some fascinating insight into my subconscious and that Freud himself would have a thing or two to say about it so I might leave it in).
It was hot. The tattoo place was hot. I was hot. Also with heat rash.
I tried so hard to look cool, because I was sure that all the people in the place were like "what the hell's that girl doing hanging around here? She's so fucking Middle Class. Ha look how nervous she looks. I had MY first tattoo to celebrate my fifth birthday...".
Trust me on this, I didn't think I was cool.
Interestingly enough, the guy who the Universe had selected to perform this feat of art that will, I hasten to remind you, last for my WHOLE LIFE, yeah, that guy? Couldn't speak any English. Think he was maybe Polish, which is all well and good, and I hear Poland is very pleasant and that Polish is a beautiful language. I, however, do NOT speak Polish. I was in a bit of a state, I was talking nervously at a rate of, oh, I'd say about six gadzillion words a minute. I talked to everyone, primarily to Kirsten, who'd come with me for support. I also talked to my Drill-Man, my Polish non-English speaking Drill-Man. I asked him he had done this before? was the drill rusty? was everyone this nervous before their first tattoo? was I by far the wussiest person he'd ever done? He stared at me with pale eyes and answered me thus: "Yes. No. No. Yes".
I was like, er, Oh.
Okay.
THANKS Drill-Man, really calmed me down there. I feel so much more comfortable knowing you really care. He also tickled me at one point. You know when someone pinches your waist?Yes, well, I HATE that. Do that to me and I cry. Fucking Drill-Man did that as he was revving up his drill. (It sounds like I am exaggerating. I wish I was. My life is actually LIKE THIS. Sob.)
So then he drilled...
It took about 25 mins and I just talked the whole time, like a bad radio DJ.
Kirsten held my hands and we both went through our separate pains. Mine was the man with the drill (yes yes, I know it's a needle but it sounds like a drill) on my back, hers was the combination of my hand crushing and my INCESSANT talking talking talking. I think I had a better deal than her actually. She couldn't stop shaking for about an hour afterwards. I was fine. You do the maths. Sorry, Kirsten.
It looks lovely, I love it. All credit to the Polish Drill-Man, he did well. I am taking very good care of it, as instructed by some of you guys and also The Internet, and also a man I spoke to whilst hammered on Sunday (the first one) who had tattoos all over him and whom I decided (quite logically I think) must be an expert and therefore grilled him, much to the chargrin of his girlfriend.
So that's that. I haven't told my parents, as they're out of the country for two weeks. Not sure what they'll say when I unveil it, if I have the guts to. Any tips for that one? Shout it through a mega-phone from an underground bunker a mile away and then run for the hills? Be all 'whatever' about the whole thing, because, if we're honest I am 23 and therefore shouldn't really be scared?
Tricky one.
So I really must do some work now (read: I'll be back in five).