A Rapunzel figure with a sweep of hair sat alongside me in a wifi cafè. She leaned across to plug in her notebook at the communal wall socket, so I was conscious of her fresh-smelling hair brushing my arm. I noticed, too, that her arms were fully covered and that her long, clean nails were perfectly filed. But I did not turn to look at her as such. My personal space had been concertina-ed, and so I kept my eyes on my own screen.

And then her fingers began flying across her keyboard with a speed that begged commenting on. I turned to compliment her on her finger fandango, and it was then that I noticed, peeking out from the cuff on her sleeve, was a delicately inked scene of tropical complexity and possibly spiritual significance. I noticed, because my now all-seeing eyes caught sight of her ankle too, that Rapunzel was tattooed all over.

Once upon a time - perhaps fifteen years ago - tattoos were the preserve of sluts, convicts and sailors. Rapunzel was, to my mind, pretty and dignified (and possibly intelligent) prior to my espying her body art. My remaining impression, after catching a hint of her panorama, was pity and revulsion. Why indelibly stamp beautiful skin? Why allow a delicately inked panorama to become faded and crepey, and to remain a sad impediment and permanent reminder of a mad moment in time?

The same can be said of those people - photographers included - who post soft porn (or worse) pics of self or others onto the Web. Recently a teenager was heard to say that 'everybody's doing it so it's no big deal', and when pressed to respond to the charge that such pics would be unearthed one day and blight her chances of promotion or political office, 'cool' teenager replied with another 'no big deal' response because 'everybody' would, by then, have an Internet porn history.

Paul Simon was right: we are, indeed, 'slip-sliding away' ...