Last weekend I discovered two of my children were dead-set on getting tattoos.

It was a dilemma as it was one of just three things I had always insisted they never do (the others, in case you’re interested: getting hooked on drugs or taking up smoking...your basic parental requests, one could argue).

Now, don’t get me wrong, if covering yourself in body art is your thing, then good luck to you. But I come from a family – and for that matter, an era – where tattoos weren’t really the done thing.

They most certainly weren’t cool or fashionable to most.

They seemed, instead, to be the preserve of sailors or those simply wanting to look intimidating. I’m thinking Popeye if you’re trying to conjure up an image in your head that ticks both boxes.

It’s been a real eye-opener, therefore, how they have become completely normal in this day and age. In my youth, a bloke getting their ear pierced was quite a big thing.

So perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised by my kids’ desire to join the trend. It should, at this point, be pointed out that ‘kids’ suggests they are misguided 14-year-olds. They are, in fact, both in their 20s and more than capable of making considered decisions in which I trust.

Over the years, as the craze took hold, I’ve often pondered getting one myself. Normally when three drinks to the wind and common sense briefly trots away from me.

But I keep thinking it’s a bit like how I used to scrawl my favourite bands on my school bag all those years ago. I liked them at that moment, but would I still want, say, my arm covered in a likeness of Carol Decker from T’Pau circa 1987? Probably not, is the answer.

Imagine if I had been a Rolf Harris fan and had a huge Rolfaroo inked on my back? That would be highly unfortunate.

Yet all of these perils fade into insignificance when it comes to the thought of paying to sit in a chair and having someone put me through pain for however long these things take.

Granted, people paying for pain is probably a thing – but not for me it isn’t.

But I digress. Tattoos, in the space of a mere, what, 25 years?, have gone from being the preserve of a few to being a statement by the masses.

My children’s desire to break one of their dad’s three golden commandments is, if nothing else, a far lesser evil than the other two (both of which I reminded them of and insisted were non-negotiables as they informed me of plans to ride roughshod over the other).

Both are going for small, discrete, designs. At my age – and theirs for that matter – I think we’ve passed the point where my view counts for all that much. Which is only right.

If they’d told me they were having ‘love’ and ‘hate’ tattooed across their knuckles, on the other hand, we may have had a falling out.

So they’ll get no doubt get ‘inked’, as they say, and I will, without question, still think they are both flawless.

And if they say it didn’t hurt too much then maybe – just maybe – I might follow suit.

After all, my biggest fear – aside from the pain is what a tattoo would look like when I was an OAP. And the truth is I’m edging ever closer to that time in my life, so perhaps now is the time to take the plunge. Or, maybe not.