The Absurd Secret Diary Of An Unborn Baby, Page 2

  Zilli and Zalli’s mother was a former circus-rider and trapeze artist in the Siberian State Circus, and their father was a Georgian ringmaster. The twins treated me to a routine of spectacular, gymnastic workouts. Understandably, it didn’t go down too well with their mother.

  In one corner of the waiting room, looking around a water dispenser rather slyly, I thought, was an unborn I hadn’t seen before. I’ll call him New Kid on the Block. Sneers a great deal and no doubt a fully paid-up member from the school of arrogance.

  Overheard a middle-age woman wishing she was pregnant just like the teenage schoolgirl sitting beside her. Surprise, surprise, she was pregnant, just didn’t know it yet.

  My so righteous friend, Pompous Twit, and his so clever mother (has PhD), sat next to my mother (no PhD). He’s a nine week old, and already full of his own self-importance. Lives in a leafy-lined avenue with his single parent mother. Father ran off with the family’s Polish au pair three weeks earlier. Pompous said his mother discovered the girl was advertising herself in the local rag as an actress. Wonder if she’s ever acted with great Hollywood stars, like Paris Hilton or Victoria Beckham?

  Pompous discovered he has a new pair of bendable wrists and making sure everyone knows about it. Just wish my wrists were primed and ready for competition. ‘Sir’ Pompous sniffed that his mother was an Atomic Particle Scientist, votes BNP and cooks the best chocolate zombies in England. His Scottish granny also bakes the best tartan zombies, so he says. Sometimes (well, always), Pompous can be so aloof as to be indecipherable.

  Another of my friends, ‘Blubber’ was rocking aimlessly on his mother’s umbilical.

  Blubber said he went ‘white water wafting in the wiver wapids of Womania, and it was so howibly cold.’ At eight weeks, Blubber is still very young, like me in fact, but unlike me, he is naïve.

  The only other unborn in the doctor’s surgery I saw, was a very quiet girl. I’ll call her BouBoo. She hadn’t said a word. Maybe her vocal-chords are not quite yet correctly positioned.

  Caught Dara smiling and waving at New Kid on the Block. He openly returned the smile and waved, but sneered in my direction. Clearly dislikes me. Good. It’s mutual then. I’ll put money on he can’t even count his friends on one finger.

  Dara insisted she hadn’t waved or smiled at him. It was a ponging womb, she said, and was waving the pong away. A grimace not a smile, so she says.

  I wonder sometimes if my first love really cares about my feelings. At this critical stage of our relationship, it wouldn’t take much to break my newly arrived four chambered, and now, fully deflated heart. How could a first love be so horrible?

  Lesson one. Be careful before trusting an unborn female. They are deadly fickle, and often uncaring. As changeable as the nine tides of the womb, I think.

  Late Evening. At Lazy Lucy’s Nightclub. Watched Disco Dez dancing to ‘Saturday Night Fever.’ Downloaded musical archives from the 70’s. States this noise died a death decades ago. Dez reminds me of a (very, very) young black John Travolta, but without the hips.

  The dance floor was full of beautiful, young things, like highly salaried, city professionals. Cocktails were being slurped in one hand, mobiles tightly glued to the ear, in the other.

  Dez is a dead good dancer. I was obviously and seriously jealous. He was pulling-in all the girls. Probably something to do with using his umbilical cord like a pole-dancer.

  We bumped wombs throughout the night. Seriously embarrassing. I would have definitely preferred bumping wombs with Dara any day or night.

  Mother is so dead drunk that she’s singing soulful songs about how lucky she is carrying me. It’s a crying shame she never tells me when she’s dead sober.

  Saturday 11th October. Morning.

  Felt dangerously unwell today. Don’t think it’s from mother’s drinking or over-dosing on nicotine, but could be the beginnings of the MRSA bug from yesterday’s visit to the doctors. My mother’s fault for registering with a doctor’s surgery that was evidently filthy. There are too many so-called sick people visiting doctors’ surgeries I think, insisting on sick notes to claim benefits to cop-off work.

  Late afternoon. The MRSA bug has scuttled from my body. At last, I’m free from the disease, if I ever had it of course.

  Week Nine.

  Downloaded my daily news medical-bulletin. Mentions my eyes being a great cause for concern. Seems the construction workers have refused to commit to a contracted deadline.

  Had a worrying shock. Eyes refuse to budge from the side of my head. Playing a game of stubborn gits, no doubt. At least my eyes are now beginning to focus.

  Feet look less webbed. As for my wrists, the scaffolding was dissembled yesterday. I’ll give them a bloody good workout soon.

  Sunday 12th October.

  Why was I designated this wanton womb? Mother is drinking herself silly under the table again. Too many dry vodka martinis, shaken but not stirred. If she doesn’t ease up soon, I’ll end up being a regular at Alcoholics Anonymous.

  Monday 13th October.

  Slept all day. The sad effects of a raging hangover.

  Tuesday 14th October.

  Ditto.

  Wednesday 15th October.

  Ditto, but restless.

  Thursday 16th October.

  Slowly re-surfaced somewhere outside my mind, far beyond the womb.

  Friday 17th October. Morning. D-Day.

  Bad omen in the sky. A good omen would be hard rain, lightning even better. However, the sky is clear, and unfortunately for me, that’s our signal to step into the plane.

  Bag carefully packed, tightly secured, and I hope fully tested, but instead of dreaming of flying to distant Greek islands, the bag is strapped to my mother’s back. Skydiving anyone?

  Dara looks deadly nervous and I’m seriously petrified. We are the distressed owners of two very dangerous, and in my opinion, deranged psycho-brained mothers (must look up the Mental Health Act), each willing to jump out of a plane at 15,000 ft. Sheer madness if you ask me, not that anyone EVER does. Must urgently memo myself, if I return home safely, to telephone a Human Rights lawyer. Must be able to get mother on something.

  The strong whiff of alcohol on mother’s breath, confirmed my suspicions. She must have taken a crafty slurp when I was having forty winks.

  This jump is going to be a living nightmare, and guess what? It’s all mine.

  10.54 am. Was I nudged? Was I pushed? No, I was thrown out of the plane... Clear case of baby abuse. Call the lawyers now.

  Mother screams and I yell. I’ll never speak to her again. Dara’s mother whoops for joy, but she’s an experienced skydiver. Mother must take gross pleasure from psychotic fun.

  This is my first ever white-knuckle ride. What a time to baptise my newly arrived, bendable wrists.

  I clench hold of the life support system (umbilical cord), for the dearest of unborn baby life. The raw pull of the Earth’s gravity, which I didn’t expect, is pulling at my new four-chambered heart, causing it to miss scores of beats. The pounding became louder and got frighteningly faster. The gawping mouth of terra-firma was getting closer with the passing of every second.

  Would you believe it! The primary chute has just failed. Typical. Who packed this bloody parachute? I didn’t wish to die before I’m even born.

  Looked up towards mother. Wished I hadn’t. A sticky, gooey mess of chewing gum was clinging to her nose. It was obscene. Looked ridiculous. Thought I could trust her with my life, obviously not.

  Mother completed a complicated rolling position onto her back (I must have missed that lesson). Seriously prayed she wasn’t thinking of giving birth just yet. Certainly would have brought a completely new meaning to natural birthing. There was, looking on the positive side, a real chance of survival now, I think.

  10.56 am. A knight in shining armour descended out of the clouds. Will the noble knight rescue us from certain death? Text your messages now.

  ‘Pull the bloody c
ord, you idiot. The yellow one.’ Mother tugged furiously at the green cord. Idiot. Obviously, this was the moment all colours seem alike. However, because PANIC was now sitting on both our shoulders, humming to itself with a hint of insanity thrown in, I shouldn’t be too harsh on her.

  Tallulah and Dempsey were no doubt trying to throttle one another somewhere below, unaware of their master’s plight. Who would now open the tins of fish, pour milk into their saucers and threaten them with homelessness?

  10.57am. ‘No, no, not green. The yellow, the yellow. This, this,’ the shining knight yelled. He was probably more concerned with how this incident would appear on his precious career CV.

  I also thought it best to search for my yellow cord to tug.

  No success. I had the umbilical cord, but it was turning deathly white. Can’t blame it really.

  Must search harder for the yellow cord. About to suffer my first serious breakdown.

  Mother (where would we be without them?) is the unlikely hero. She only found the reserve chute.

  With a single, swift and determined flick of her wrist, she pulled the cord. Somehow, it grudgingly opened.

  I quickly followed her example. Tugged on my own cord, even if the unintentional effect was mother wincing in pain.

  Far above, I saw Dara waving, jumping up and down like a lunatic and doing loop the loop. My first love is so excitable. I was not about to fail her now and end my final, unborn moments, lying splattered across the airfield.

  What a bloody hero my mother is. British and all. ‘God save our gracious queen, long live our noble queen, god save the queen, send her victorious, happy and glorious,’ and the rest …..

  11.10 am or thereabouts. My head did an ‘Australian’ and went walkabout. Fell into a large prickly bush backside first (mother’s), but at least we landed safely. Appears my unborn body cells are destined for greater things in life after all.

  Saturday 18th October. Early next morning.

  My eyes feel under developed this morning, gritty and red, tired and emotional. Instead of ending up dead in some cheap, tacky coffin, we were still alive.

  Saturday night. Danced late into the night at Lazy Lucy’s Nightclub. Told Dara how incredibly drop-dead gorgeous she looked. She complimented me and insisted I looked the same.

  New Kid was nowhere to be seen. Thought he would have wanted to celebrate my escape-act from the jaws of death. Guess he’s sulking at my misfortune to have escaped death.

  Finally, Dara and I got to dance, but unfortunately, it was also our last. I like to think we held hands whilst dancing into the night, holding her close, before mother dashed into the toilet with her head stuck firmly down the pan, holed up in the lavatory.

  12.00 Midnight. Disturbed by knocking on my cell door.

  Mother’s new boyfriend is a Swiss skiing instructor called Anton. Anton is a bottle-blonde, drives a silver Merc and showers mother with the best Swiss chocolates, no doubt, handmade by his very own fingers. What’s he after?

  The knock at my front door, though a smudge fuzzy due to my internal ear structures not fully formed until next week, grew louder.

  ‘Behaving yourself in there,’ said the bottle-blonde, but it should have been Angus, my biological father saying these words, not mother’s newest, wind him up and watch him perform, toy boy.

  Today, I am officially recognised as a foetus. One moment I was an embryo, the next, a foetus. It was not long ago I was an unthinking, two-bit cell of nonsense. Now look at me. Even my toes are sprouting.

  Week Ten.

  I’m on the move. Should be 50mm to 61mm long by the end of the week.

  Sunday 19th October.

  Slept most of the day. Counted obese sheep going to market.

  Monday 20th October. Late evening.

  Officially, I am the very proud owner of two, beautifully crafted, internal ear structures, both fully formed and wired for unborn sound. First mission today will be to press my ear against the wall of mother’s womb. Outer ear still not created yet.

  Think mother must be watching a farming programme on the television. I hear snorting. Pigs maybe?

  Solved. Mother is snoring.

  Strange. My hearing still not functioning as it should. Experiencing siren sounds. Maybe I’ve contracted a deadly infectious siren disease.

  Solved. It’s a speeding fire engine with blaring siren, screeching tyres, blue flashing lights, and its right outside our bloody house.

  Very late evening. Those brave fire fighters saved our house. It could have burnt down. I tried waking mother by whacking her with a series of deadly, karate-chops, followed by a bout of kickboxing. Nothing worked. I threw a hefty, right uppercut, followed by a left uppercut. Still she slept. In fact, if anything, her snoring got louder.

  In the end, it was a misdirected (or well-directed) gush from a fire fighter’s hose straight through our open window, drenching mother, which woke her.

  A neighbourly neighbour, called Billy Bridges (he’s 96 years old and got a George Cross medal, so he says), saved the day by dialing 999, but only after dialing Search and Rescue, then ordering a pizza.

  He noticed the plumes of deadly, black smoke escaping from our open lounge window.

  I think good neighbours should always be cherished, even if they do insist on having bigger and better barbeques than you.

  Tuesday 21st October. After breakfast.

  Dara telephoned, courtesy of her mother. ‘Woke up with a severe head cold,’ she said, and understandably was down in the dumps. Like my mother, Mrs Doo also enjoys a tipple or two.

  Disco Dez has asked Dara out on a date. New Kid on the Block also tried his luck, and to add insult to further injury, Pompous Twit telephoned my girl. Pompous thought she was a ‘special lady’ and told her so, even willing to escort her to a restaurant of her choice. Said he’d found an opening in his nearly full diary.

  My friends were trying their luck with my girl and quite rightly, in my opinion, she turned them all down. Now that IS love.

  Dara Doo has grown to 10.5 cm and now weighs 40 grams. Most girls will do anything to avoid revealing their true weight, but Dara is different. I’m her boyfriend, and she tells me everything, she says.

  Wednesday 22nd October.

  Slept all day, unless you count the number of times I kicked Tallulah off mum’s naked stomach as she snoozed, tired from the booze.

  Thursday 23rd October.

  My placenta is almost complete. Just requires a few nips and tucks here and there.

  Friday 24th October.

  Received an urgent phone call from Dara. Sounded very upset. After blubbering on for nearly a minute, she regained some composure. Ari was dead, she said.

  ‘Oh no, not Harry, young Mary O’Rourke’s unborn?’

  ‘No, Ari the blues singer,’ she sobbed.

  Poor old Ari passed away at 32 weeks. He was getting-on a bit I know, which makes it all the more poignant. His mother smoked like a trooper (forty a day). I think his coffin should have been sponsored by Marlboro cigarettes.

  The funeral service has been inked in for Tuesday at noon. Ari would have been dead proud of his friends. All insisted on turning out to say their farewells. Ari had become a very popular guy in the world of the unborns. I just hope all the expecting mothers attend; otherwise, we could experience major problems.

  Saturday 25th October.

  Anton, mother’s Austrian toy boy, barged uninvited into the bathroom. He looked at my mum’s naked stomach before caressing it gently. Very unusual for him. ‘Are we behaving in there?’ he asked. As usual, I refused to answer. Anyway, it should be my dad saying these intimate things. The rest of the morning just rushed by in a blur.

  Week Eleven.

  By the end of this week, I will be approximately 7.5cm long and weigh 12.5 grams. For now my major organs like the brain, liver, lungs and kidneys, are clearly defined and already functioning. My fingernails are also growing in. My head is a little
on the large size for now, but not to worry, it will soon sort itself out.

  Sunday 26th October.

  Disco Dez literally gave me the bumps at the supermarket. Our mothers collided into one-another whilst out shopping. Mother tried squeezing between two trolleys, but failed miserably. I was an inch from being flattened like a kipper.

  Friday week will be Dez’s twenty-first birthday and he’s invited me. I can escort any partner, he said. Of course, he knew Dara was the chosen one. He fancies her I’m sure. Seems everyone does these days.

  Monday 27th October.

  It’s raining, and why hasn’t Dara phoned? Does she love me? Women, who really understands them?

  My brain was upgraded yet again. I am never consulted over these matters. It is so rude.

  Tuesday 28th October. A truly sad day.

  At Ari’s funeral service, everyone who was anyone was there.

  There was the circus twins, Disco Dez, Blubber who was crying. Even Pompous Twit paid his respects.

  Dara looked lovely, and her eyelashes were emerging. I’m dead certain they fluttered at me.

  New Kid showed his face. Mores the pity.

  The church service was a dead sombre affair. All made the effort to sing, but we were never going to make the music charts.

  Because my eyes are still positioned to the sides, I can see, if a little fuzzy, to the right and left simultaneously. Any foe would find it impossible to creep up behind me unawares.

  Many of the unborns at the church consisted of half arm, half leg, one eye, one ear, no nose, no brain (Pompous Twit comes to mind), creations, but all had one thing in common, the courage to sing and dance. Ari would have been chuffed, and loved his own funeral.