My skin is a canvas, apparently

We had the ‘informal chat’ with the tattoo man today. Philippa says he’s like a kindly uncle. I think he looks more like a downbeat alcoholic who’s had several bits of metal forced into his face by muggers.
“They’re piercings, they‘re just adornments,” Philippa told me, “It’s no different to me wearing ear-rings, and if he was in an Amazon tribe he’d be considered a work of art.”
That’s as maybe, but I’m worried that the six bolts through his eyebrow might affect his sight, and he’ll accidentally stab me in the jugular while ‘inking’ me.
When he asked if I had any questions, I inquired how many deaths he’s caused by being clumsy, but he declined to answer and Philippa punched me in the stomach.
“Ignore him” she said, “he’s just nervous.”
“Don’t worry, lots of people are nervous on their first visit” he said, “mostly the teenage girls, but don’t feel bad. You’re in good hands.”
Actually his hands look like they’ve been hit with bricks several times and then sewn back together by a blind plastic surgeon having a sneezing fit.
Anyway, for better or worse, we’ve picked our gothic lettering and our colour scheme, and we’re booked in for next Saturday morning at 10am. If anyone can think of a way out of this, you have six-and-a-half days to contact me…..

RC 4-6-11 (evening)