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Dear Diary

It all began with one random tweet…

I have scoured the inner-most workings of my little ink-filled brain and I still cannot comprehend how it all happened. One sunny day in London, walking to Looby’s house, a beautiful sunny, if slightly chilly, day – one of those days that feels full to the brim of unlocked potential and wonder. My phone is happily tucked inside my handbag, my fur-coat is wrapped up around my earlobes and I am about to call on Looby, so that we can make our way to the Brighton Tattoo Convention (as I had informed you all I would).

I knocked on her door and made myself comfy on her couch waiting for her to finish preening herself in preparation for the day’s events. I got my phone out – as you do in these sort of situations. I gasped in horror as my – new still don’t know how to lock/work it – BlackBerry displays a tweet. One single tweet – a tweet that I did not write. The tweet in question had even managed to tag one man in it. One man – one man that I did not wish to mention in said single tweet. This man just happened to be the one tattooed art historian who I have previously described as my “ideal man”. I may have even swooned at some point in the sentence. Bloody twitter *swoons*.

@mattlodder Liv u by want do a bang thing

This is the tweet and how it tweeted I am quite certain I shall never be sure. So after this I thought the day could hold no more horrors. Things can only get better and all that. How wrong could I possibly be? Myself and Looby arrive at London Bridge station ready to board the high speed to Brighton, must point out that is already around 4pm by this point. So, we get in the queue for tickets only to be informed that we would have to catch a rail replacement bus, oh bugger! This just ain’t gonna work for us. After much deliberation, tears and tantrums (from me not Looby I hasten to add) we come to an *almost* unanimous decision to go to the pub instead. By this point I need wine (and cigs).

Alice — so upset that my arm gets inked with a grumpy face.

Off we trot with the waifs and strays we have managed to collect along the way (a boyfriend and his brother and his girlfriend). In the pub the drunken chat, as ever, turns to childhood dreams, jobs and tattoos we always wanted. It was revealed that one of us (I mention no names) wanted a snowflake and a ladder tattoo. We wittered on about best tattoos to symbolise our jobs, i.e. stock market numbers from the Financial Times, globes, books and trains (am sure you can pick out jobs to match). So the day didn’t quite pan out as I had initially hoped, however it was fun and it does provide me with another amusing anecdote in the days and life of Alice Th’ink.

But please, please, pretty please can someone fill me in on exactly what I missed? Thanks muchly.

And here are some of my fave photos from the day stolen from those of you who are more wise than I.

Photos: facebook