The tattoo parlor was more expansive than I’d expected; low-ceilinged, but with many rooms and passageways leading off who knows where; well-lit and spotless but with a late 1970’s Austrian decor – fake wood panelling/linoleum that I found vaguely depressing.

The tattoo artist had lank, long blonde hair, in sort of a mullet. He was a little on the heavy side, unremarkable. I’d wanted to ask about where to put a tattoo, since shoulders/back are probably out as I tend to get these pre-cancerous things I’ve mentioned, and should probably not decorate those regions so I can spot them when they appear. But somehow we never got onto that subject.

Do you want a pain pill beforehand, he asked. At the dentist I always ask for laughing gas or novocaine when I get the chance, so I figured why not?

He gave me two light green lozenges, made of translucent glass. They had what looked like small metallic electronic elements inside. I swallowed both at the same time, although they were as large as cough drops.

He then showed me a small booklet, about eight by five, with maybe eight pages – designs I could choose. All were somehow Lord of the Rings-themed, however. Elvish script. Tribal designs that somehow said, Gandalf.

It was disappointing. So I left. Then my alarm clock rang and I woke up.