I’d just like to correct something that I wrote a couple of weeks ago in this column – in the article I wrote about my holidays, I said that my mum let me get my belly button pierced.
Well, technically that wasn’t true. She agreed to let me get it done, after about three years of convincing.
Anyway, last Tuesday was the big day.
I count myself quite lucky – one of the family friends, Kenny, has his own piercing place through in Glasgow, and he said he would do it for me.
Kenny is daft, in a good way though. He’s this crazy, tattoo covered, pierced, mad punk rocker, who is absolutely hilarious and, it’s safe to say, excellent at piercing belly buttons.
Well, Tuesday afternoon, me and mum jumped on the train through to Glasgow, nerves and all, and made our way to the Forge. By this point, I was honestly, really, 100 per cent under the impression that I was going to faint. After the what seemed to be 50 mile long walk, we finally arrived at Kenny’s shop, Pistol Piercing.
Well, out he came, tunnels and all, grinning like the Mad Hatter, telling me not to worry, going through all the safety things and explaining how to care for my new piercing after it had been, ehm, pierced, and before I knew it, I was lying down with my head on my mum’s knee singing ‘Jingle Bells’ at the top of my lungs.
I do strange things when I’m nervous.
Anyway, after several minutes of making weird and random noises, deep breathing, three verses of ‘Frere Jacques’ and establishing that one of my teeth is squint, that was it, done and dusted, needle in, needle out.
There was a shiny blue belly bar staring me in the face, and poor me, I was shaking like a leaf.
I couldn’t thank Kenny more, he said if I wrote a column about the whole ordeal he’d do it for half price, likewise to anyone who has read this column. So, my advice is take the trip through to Glasgow, brave the wonder that is Kenny, and get a high quality half price piercing!