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My older son Christopher has a Welsh dragon tattooed on the inside part of his lower arm. He mentioned it only afterwards, so I was unable to talk him out of it. Parents can be such boors sometimes. For the life of me I can't remember which arm — the patronymic one, I suppose. Of course, his father is only half Welsh, which makes him a quarter Welsh. Still, he was looking for a connection to the world, and there are far worse things than being connected.

I saw the exact same bright red tattoo on the upper arm of a gorgeous barista wearing a sleeveless blouse at Linaea's Coffee House in San Luis Obispo a few years ago. I asked if she was Welsh. "Am I what?" she replied. "Welsh. That's a Welsh dragon, isn't it?" "Oh, yeah," she said, sort of half-remembering. "They had a whole bunch of them, but I really liked this one the best."
 
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