The Absurd Secret Diary Of An Unborn Baby



  THE ABSURD

  SECRET DIARY

  OF AN

  UNBORN BABY

 

  By David N Bending

  All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author or publisher.

  First published in Great Britain in 2009

  ISBN 978-1-326-97901-0

  Copyright  2009 David n Bending. All rights reserved. Cover by Joleene Naylor 2011

  The first eight weeks started off a little blurry, but yesterday, the blur slowly lifted, allowing my mind to explode in copious streams of thoughts.

  I was comparing my cradle of unborn life to a construction site, the seeds of foundations sprouting, giving birth to an ever-rising, sleepless city, supplied and serviced by super highways, and not a slow lane in sight.

  Take yesterday morning; I was resting in mother’s womb, sucking on a thumb, minding my own business and without a care-in-the-world, when a light suddenly flickered on in my head. Consciousness had arrived, and without warning, my virgin, unborn brain, leapt on stage.

  It wasn’t a case of brain squeezing through the letter box or being delivered by express courier, standard parcels, or even, take-a-chance and wrap brain up in a covering of brown paper hoping the postman isn’t dodgy or something, but it did seem to materialize out of the blue, and for the very first time I sensed a feeling of shock.

  Take last night. I dreamt my brain had become the main attraction, with the showman’s voice crying out, ‘Roll up, roll up and buy a ticket or two. Come on in and wipe your feet, no gatecrashers please. Take a seat of your choosing, because the greatest show in the womb is about to begin.’

  Because of the arrival of brain, I now know I own two pets; Dempsey, a mongrel dog, and a cat named after my hippie, pot-smoking grandmother, Tallulah.

  After eight weeks, the living quarters have become comfortable. I even have a gym, a feeding station with compulsory heated pool thrown in, and an entrance, firmly secured with double padlocks. But, I get this constant nagging feeling insanity will eventually pay me a visit, pick desperately at the locks and let itself in. Probably, a painter would look upon my cell as a masterpiece, but a poet would definitely cry.

  Only moments ago, I received my first dazzling idea. I wanted to create my very own diary. A secret diary.

  So, here I float, relaxing in my balmy bath of amniotic fluid and daydreaming of Dara.

  Who is Dara? Apparently, she’s my girlfriend. I had no idea before week eight. Now that’s what I call startling news. Dara said she was just as surprised and shocked as I was, especially as it appears we both liked smooching on the dance floor to love songs.

  So, here begins my diary. I’ll rattle through the first eight weeks seeing I only switch-on proper afterwards.

  WEEK ONE

  Day One.

  Kicking-off on Lesbos; a hot and sunny Greek island. At precisely 7.22am, on the morning of August 4th 2008, there was a point of great detonation (to me at least). An egg was fertilised, so setting in motion my wheel of unborn life. I called it, ‘My Big Bang.’ To be honest, I didn’t exactly exist at that very moment, but after the second ‘Big Bang,’ where I became two cells, I did.

  Sally Summer, my mother, had taken a holiday, chasing the summer sun and getting away from everyone and everything. She’d been brought up as a wild child on the notorious Aegean island of Lesbos, where women chase women, chase men (in mother’s case), chase anything.

  I guess the likelihood of my father being a Greek waiter chasing mother through the hotel lobby was a possible scenario, as was a sun-worshipping beach Adonis tripping her up in the toe-burning sands, or even a fisherman after a day’s catch, but in truth, my father was a very drunk, but affable Scottish tourist called Angus on holiday with his snorkeling partner Gary.

  Baffles me why mother was his ideal catch of the day. Guess alcohol fudges brains, and what appears to be one thing is in fact, something opposite. Poor Gary must have been fuming.

  I was shipped out from the shores of my unborn birthplace (the ovary), setting full sail to a land far off where mystery and whispering rumours told of a new landfall. The ‘Womb,’ they called it; a place of possible virgin territory, ripe for building creations on large industrial scales.

  By the end of week one, I had been navigated through the choppy, dangerous waters of unthinkable depths.

  Dry land was eventually sighted and the anchor thrown overboard. This land with its gathering workforce was to become my home for the next 39 weeks.

  Mother, without knowing she was pregnant, got me drunk on vodka that week. If the NSPCC had caught a sniff, she could have been arrested. Technically though, I don’t think I count as an abused child, just yet.

  Week Two.

  Cells galore. Like most large families, there were countless quarrels. My family of cells constantly procreated at break-neck speed, their destinies lying in other organ systems.

  Some cells mistakenly bumped into one another, others passed by with a quick handshake, but sadly, a minority displayed sadistic signs of nastiness. These are the ‘bully’ cells, so damaged that a close watch on these was necessary.

  Week two also witnessed the beginnings of a new framework surrounding my complicated placenta; construction turned out to be particularly swift here.

  Mother made a new friend outside Sainsbury’s this week. Surprise, surprise, she was also pregnant, and carrying a girl.

  Week Three.

  Early Tuesday morning. Woke up with a heavy hangover. Mother had danced barefoot into the early hours of Tuesday morning at the Quay Club, her favourite night-time haunt (she calls it dancing, but I call it making an exhibition of herself). She downed (and me) three tequila sunrises, two vodka martinis, large Plymouth gin and a Bloody Mary. The only thing remotely good about all this was she had a worse hangover than I did, but unfortunately, what she swallows, I swallow.

  My multiplying cells were also caught-up in the dance fever bug, partying to their own version of a seedy nightclub.

  Guess how many cells I had in week three? Millions upon millions. It was mind-blowing mayhem.

  End of Week Three. The scaffolding to my placenta now fully erected, mainly due to speedy workmanship without cost savings or cutting corners.

  Onsite accidents were reported, but remarkably, fewer recorded in the accident book. Should save on lawyers’ costs.

  Scaffolding erected to sculpt my heart, making it another positive sign of the workforce pulling together. They don’t claim sick benefits here.

  Week Four.

  More scaffolding arrived and more muddy boots. My stomach, liver, thyroid and a basketful of other bits and pieces thrown in, experienced the satisfaction of being firmly welded together.

  By the end of week four I was 4mm long (well, size isn’t everything), and that’s a big deal here in the unborn world of the womb. At four weeks old, the umbilical cord began to form.

  Week Five.

  Jumping aboard. I was dead wrong, size was everything, and when you shoot from 5 mm to 8 mm in a blink of a week, one had to be impressed. I weighed just over 1 gram, but a serious watch on those calories was still required.

  Two gold stars are awarded to my arms and legs. Their looks were outrageous and turning into dead cool exhibitionists. Even my fingers showed signs of growth. Facial features steam-rolled into position with ears, mouth and nose, leading from the front.

 
Spinal cord and breathing passages jumped aboard, doing their bit for the cause, though construction was disappointing, recorded as being slow in some areas. My intestines comprised of a wobbly shape. Were they functioning? Well, maybe not yet but they will be, then they’ll be ready for burgers and chips.

  Week Six.

  Watching and contemplating unborn life. Again, don’t stop me. I stretched to an incredible 13 mm but still only weighed 1 gram. If I had a working brain, I’d have something to worry with, but at six weeks, my brain was still unemployed, lying stretched out in a deckchair, and waiting impatiently for the off.

  At six weeks old, you could say embryonic life was about hanging loose, experiencing the comings and goings of the dedicated work force.

  At six weeks, an embryo still only watches, automatically memorising and storing a library full of information into memory cells to be downloaded.

  At six weeks old, my eyes were like black pinpricks, but I think they looked dead cool. Instead of a mouth, I had gills like a fish. I guess I looked stupid, but they were to form my jaw, neck and part of my face.

  Recorded my first itch in week six that turned-up somewhere near my nose but I couldn’t reach it.

  Week Seven.

  Brain almost ready to jump on stage. Rehearsals complete. Just required plugging into the mains-supply, cutting the ribbon and watching brain’s revolving doors whirl open for the opening night.

  Many questions should have been answered, like, where is the plug? The socket? Is a fuse necessary? Three pins or two? Should I stand well back? Should I be wearing rubber gloves and deck myself out in a rubber body suit in the unlikely case of an explosion? Should I take cover? But where? Or, am I just playing stupid? Remember, I was still just an unthinking recording studio at this stage of ‘life,’ and completely full of embryo!

  Week Eight.

  Sunday 5th October. D-DAY. Brain finally plugged in.

  Hold that previous thought. I’m realising just how attached to my brain I really am. The Champagne corks blow in my head; curtains rise and brain skips onto the stage. Brain has become my best friend, and like all best friends, they should never let you down.

  A thought for the day. Just downloaded this stuff off the hot-off-the-press internal news wire dedicated to unborns. Did you know we share 50% of our DNA with bananas and 40-50% with cabbages? You did. I think not.

  If only you could see me now, floating lazily on my back, daydreaming in a warm, relaxing bubble bath and sipping a glass of cold champagne (all womb imagination of course) whilst creating my very own secret diary.

  Just heard that my status amongst unborns has been unexpectedly upgraded. As from Sunday today, in the eighth week of my miraculous creation, I’m officially rubber stamped as a foetus.

  4.07 pm. Present length 30 mm and still stretching. Head faintly rising, facial features surprisingly good. Internal organs are smiling but clearly in the early phases of unborn existence. Limbs, hands, sticky fingers and budding toes, developing to prescribed programme, but most importantly of all, my tiny beating heart has only gone and fallen in love. It is dancing the quickstep before beating to the rhythm of the rumba in all four-heart chambers.

  After the dance of ‘the four chambers,’ heart is suffering stage fright, like an actor’s first night nerves; sticking head down toilet bowl. Maybe heart is experiencing life-threatening palpitations, in which case, don’t panic.

  My first love as you know is also an unborn. We met at our local Sainsbury’s in my second week. Her mother’s surname is Doo, so my first love is, my little Dara Doo.

  First-love wants to name me Paris. It was classy and meaningful,’ she said. I told her I didn’t want a classy, meaningful name,’ and she shouldn’t read so many classic novels. Now she’s sulking. Didn’t realise girls could be so sensitive. Another lesson learnt.

  Monday 6th October.

  Feeling unwell. Was I suffering from a life threatening fever? No.Was it swine flu? No. Was it the curry? It was. How do I know? Because after eating a scorching hot Indian, mother answered a little after midnight. She thoughtfully brought up the horrid looking contents of her stomach, but I didn’t think it resembled much of a curry. Mother vomited all night, but thankfully, not over me.

  Tuesday 7th October.

  Mother worships idols (dead and alive), like George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin and some 70’s singer called Melanie, but most of all, she worships Beatrice Dalle. Beatrice who? She played the character Betty in the film Betty Blue. More of that another day.

  My padded cell is so big I could swing a great, floppy fish around this weird water world I inhabit. If only I could hang out a sign on my front door saying, ‘Don’t feed the fish, just feed me.’ Are you listening mother?

  Yesterday, when I was waiting for the number 29 bus outside Ronnie Patel’s British Fish and Chip Shop on the corner of Moon Street, I overheard a two-week old newborn in a pram complaining (I think he was Joshua the Jew in his unborn days). He was telling his neighbour how ‘one doesn’t realise what is lost when the womb is just a distant memory. It is only when having lost your home, you appreciate what has come and gone.’ I think he’ll be a philosopher one day.

  Wednesday 8th October.

  Today I have developed temperamental tantrums. What follows temperamental tantrums? Temperamental breakdowns of course. I am fully stressed, and could someone please call a doctor. I feel a strong urge to kick out at something. Strangely, mother comes to mind. Then again, kick out with what? My legs are too short, my feet too inadequate. Everything is too small.

  Thursday 9th October. Evening.

  In the short period I have known mother, she has been fired from many jobs. Take five weeks ago; she worked as a waitress in Harvey’s Hamburgers and was fired every day from the same job. Harvey kept re-hiring her, but finally, after the 18th time, he insisted she keep re-applying to a new restaurant. I guess he eventually saw the light.

  Late Evening. Mother is reclining on the sofa, remembering past moments like the time she bumped into French actress Beatrice Dalle, the infamous Betty in the film, Betty Blue.

  Mother first met Beatrice one rainy day on a Brittany beach holiday in St.Malo. They became friends, then lost touch (Beatrice became a big star, mother didn’t). In mother’s current state of mind, it was the character of Betty Blue she met, not the actress Beatrice Dalle. I’m seriously considering sectioning mother to a top security, lunatic asylum, paid for by the NHS of course. However, here comes the crunch, because if mother does go inside, so do I, then I would be incarcerated in two padded cells. In that case, two cells are not better than one.

  Friday 10th October. Morning.

  Late for the doctor’s appointment. It rained cats and dogs all morning. Mother telephoned for a taxi. I suffered severe, traumatic shock syndrome when the taxi eventually arrived. It was dressed-up in shocking pink from boot to bonnet. Because of the rain, the Pink Pussy Cat Cars were the only taxi firm available. I told mother she was a complete embarrassment ordering such a head-turner. However, embarrassment is foreign to mother. There would be more chance of embarrassing a lap-dancer.

  The driver looked seriously obese. Reckon there was the strong possibility of him having a massive heart attack whilst driving.

  His name was Tony, our pink sweater, Pink Pussy Cat driver. His wrist jangled with all the top-of-the-range (his words), bling (my word), including a 24-carat gold (he boasted), bracelet, but my top-of-the-range sixth sense told me it was cheap 9 carat. I kept my mouth shut (not that I’ve much of one at present).

  The traffic was horrendous. My poor heart was palpitating faster than it takes an MP to cheat on his wife in the first year on the job.

  Tony drove off in the wrong direction. Mother swore, then threatened him with serious GBH, but Tony swore back and said he couldn’t be intimidated that easily. Said he needed sympathy because he was new to the area. I reminded him that was no excuse. He said he wasn’t quite sur
e of the routes. Is he paid to upset paying customers? Tony ignored me. That is so rude.

  Thank god, the doctor is running late. Yesterday, an outbreak of Methicillin-Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus was creeping all over the doctor’s waiting room, resulting in an untidy backlog of patients today, so the receptionist grumbled.

  Mother looked puzzled, (frequently gives that impression). She had no idea what MRSA was. What is she like? Appears MRSA is a deadly infection. I wish doctors and nurses would carry out what they preach and wash their hands and nails thoroughly. Rubbing their ears across the stomachs’ of pregnant women can’t be hygienic. Weeds can grow inside ears if they’re not cleaned every day, grandma Tallulah says.

  The doctor’s surgery was crowded with pregnant women. I literally bumped into Dara, my first and only love. She gave a giggle. I said she was the prettiest girl in all the wombs. She again giggled.

  My mother sat next to Dara’s mum, whilst sitting opposite, was an old lady, probably getting on for forty or thereabouts. Looked dark around the eyes, and nervously puffed on a cancerous cigarette. Many of the younger, pregnant women in the waiting room threw her threatening stares. The cigarette smoke rushed through mother’s umbilical cord and straight into me, but I’m already addicted to nicotine.

  Sitting diagonally were Zilli and Zalli. These were a couple of dead cool girls. They’re seven weeks old and identical twins from the snowy lands of Siberia. Circus blood circulates through their veins. I first met the twins last week at Gorgeous Jorge’s, our local award-winning hairdresser. The girls insisted on having blue, braided strands woven into their hair, with double stitch-over lapping, but settled on their mother being the guinea pig. My mother settled for strands of pink. I hate pink.