The Royal Edinburgh 2011 Military Tattoo

You know how the thing with tattoos works, don't you? You get to the ripe old age of 18, and decide that you want to brand your body for life with a picture of a tiny butterfly permanently inked across your tight and muscular stomach. Then you reach your thirties, fall pregnant, and get to your ninth month, and the tiny butterfly has metamorphosed and stretched into what looks like a giant hadeda about to crash land into your crotch.

I did it a bit ass about face. I avoided tattoos in my teens and twenties, got to my thirties, had too many margaritas at a Mexican bar during happy hour in New York, and decided that I couldn't live another day without a dragonfly on my ankle. Luckily, I still liked Norbert (the dragonfly) when I sobered up, but I promised never to get another tattoo. Ever. Until a year or two later when I got another one on my arm. But it was a much more mature decision than before, because both myself and the tattoo artist were sober this time. And I swore that was that.

So when Charmaine told me we were going to the Edinburgh Military Tattoo, you can imagine why I was ambivalent. I have no impulse control, and pictured myself walking out of there with a picture of a rocket launcher or tank tattooed on my shoulder. Phew, was very relieved to find out the tattoo has nothing to do with tattoos. What an amazing night - it gave me goosebumps!