The Absurd Secret Diary Of An Unborn Baby, Page 3

  The circus twins swung their umbilical cords to the rhythm of the church organ, whilst other unborns gave marks out of ten. Thought I would try a couple loop the loops.

  I had only just grabbed hold of the umbilical, when I felt a severe pain; somewhere where my liver was in the process of being created. Something was not quite right.

  News bulletins were continually rolling-in off my internal news wire. The scaffolding was still erected around my liver, but should have been dismantled by now.

  With a little internal asking around, I discovered the workers had down tools and were on a no negotiation, two-day strike because of conditions. What conditions?

  Meanwhile… The church funeral reminded me of a Carry On Film. The funeral service finished quicker than we had anticipated. The mothers’ were beginning to leave the church. We hadn’t even commenced our speeches yet.

  The older unborns hastily paid tribute to Ari’s wicked sense of humour etc, etc. The oldest, which was Barney sludge nose (named because his nose never stops dripping green goo), gave a rushed rendition of ‘You’ll never walk alone,’ before saluting little Ari’s coffin. Some of us saluted and the rest did their best. New Kid was reciting a rather grubby story about a nun, a priest and an actor. I will not recall what was said, but Blubber nearly fainted from the shock. He’s led a very sheltered life.

  Wednesday 29th October.

  At last, lungs and kidneys are now functioning.

  Tallulah has a cough. She only has herself to blame though; she was the idiot who stayed out all night in the thunder and rain, chasing dogs.

  Like all unborns, we have this unique ability to ‘persuade’ mothers to fulfill our wishes from time to time. Therefore, mother put on a clean skirt and blouse, kicked Tallulah out of the house (I think it expected a cosy purr beside the fire. Tough), and off we spluttered in mum’s car to shop until we dropped. I wanted to put my lungs to the test.

  Just occasionally, a total stranger will approach a hapless victim in the street. This time it was a hapless stranger called Bert. Bert was a student, so he said. His grand vision was to help others less fortunate than himself by overcoming worldwide poverty. Very noble I thought, but he will need help. Bert possessed a flaw (possibly more), and mother was the last person to flash his ‘flaw’ at.

  Bert held out his ‘do-gooder,’ bright yellow, charity, money tin, directly under mother’s nose, and foolishly rattled the contents very loudly. His second BIG mistake was to smile. It was the kind of smile that wouldn’t leave his face. Fatal move, Bert.

  Mother insisted on seeing his I.D, so he flashed his card. Mother insisted on using his mobile to check the I.D; to check that this young, spotty chinned, spotty nosed student, with heavy Liverpudlian accent, was who he said he was. You can’t be too careful these days; thieves lurk around every corner. Bert muttered something about it being a ‘pay as you go’ phone.

  With my newly arrived inner-ear structures, I heard the, ‘batteries are low,’ mobile phone, bleep. After a lengthy ten minutes, mother appeared satisfied. Bert still smiled, but now did mother at the lonely sound of a five pence piece, hitting the bottom of Bert’s empty tin. Must have been heart wrenching for him. How could he feed the hungry world now? Mother’s motto is ‘charity begins at home.’

  Thursday 30th October. Late evening.

  Can’t sleep. Keep tossing and turning. Mother thinks she’s entitled to playing music, no matter how late into the night. ‘We do have neighbours to worry about,’ I reminded her.

  Halloween tomorrow. Dara has already prepared her mask; so has Pompous Twit; so has Blubber, who insists on frightening us.

  New Kid is at his aunts. Great. No stalkers to worry about then.

  My mask is just about complete; requires just a few gruesome touches.

  My list for Halloween:

  Large pumpkin (if pumpkins are sold out, guess a large turnip will do).

  Small scented candle (hate scented candles but Dara loves them).

  Scary mask (work in progress).

  Scary black cape.

  Broomsticks (one each for Dara and me).

  Cheese and onion crisps (two packets. One each for Dara and me).

  Tin of Coke (share with Dara).

  Persuade mother to buy everything on the list. Some hope.

  A friendly neighbour decided to call the police. It was Billy Bridges again. He complained about mother’s music being too loud. I agree. The neighbours cannot sleep, including me (her tenant).

  The police were, I think, rightly annoyed and complained that mother was over-stretching their thin numbers. She’s been given her first and final warning. If I were a police officer trying to gain ‘brownie’ points, I’d have thrown the book at her by now. Maybe police don’t carry books anymore, and we certainly don’t have any in our house.

  At last, mother fell onto the sofa exhausted. Tallulah meowed outside on the cold window cill.

  Friday 31st October. Halloween.

  New Kid made an unwelcome house call on Dara. He’s invited her to a dance-class for pregnant mothers. What a nerve asking my girlfriend to partner him for the evening. She rightly refused his offer, of course, but her mother accepted. The cow.

  Tossing a few ideas up into the air the other day (and Dara agrees), I’m moving out and setting up home with Dara. She thinks it’s a great idea and promises to talk to her mother about it.

  Dara spent all day digging out the mush from her oversize pumpkin before cooking a dozen pumpkin pies.

  Dara will insert a candle in the pumpkin for Halloween night. I’ve ended up with a small turnip. The local market ran out of pumpkins by the time my mother tottered along to her local fruit and veg stall. Still, at least she tried de-mushing our undersize turnip.

  Late Afternoon. New Kid was unwell. ‘Dying of a deadly disease,’ said Blubber before crying. Good. That means New Kid won’t be making an appearance tonight. His mother, like mine, is an alcoholic.

  Halloween party this evening. I have a scary mask, black cape, broomsticks, and one very nearly, completed turnip.

  Disaster. How could she? Halloween has been cancelled. Mother’s refusing to wear the scary mask, so has called off sick. This Halloween was meant to be my date with Dara (we don’t get out in the evenings that often). Planned to knock on the neighbours’ doors (especially the grumpy ones), then runaway.

  Saturday 1st November.

  Weight approaching 20 grams, and I have grown to 9 cm. Not bad for a foetus under severe stress.

  Tallulah has started sniffing. Not glue, but possibly flu. Virulent flu strains could kill me at this stage of my unborn life.

  Dempsey has disappeared. That’s the good news. No more expensive dog food to buy. Maybe mother can feed me properly now.

  Week Twelve.

  My vocal cords are showing signs of growth. The news has taken me by such surprise that, on the spur of the moment, I unwisely ‘persuaded’ mother to buy a karaoke machine. What possessed me? Now she can’t tear herself away from the bloody contraption.

  Week twelve is witnessing the removal of my scaffolding. I must look quite cool. This week I have an important appointment at the local hospital for a Doppler scan. My blood flow and Placenta need checking.

  From now on, the main focus will be growth and strength rather than the formation of new organs.

  Fingers and toes have become separated and fully formed. Toenails and tooth buds have surfaced.

  Sunday 2nd November.

  Dempsey has re-appeared. Looked scrawny after just one night away. His pathetic, ‘feel sorry for me’ look, didn’t produce the required sympathy he was obviously hoping for.

  Monday 3rd November.

  Had a great idea. Brilliant really. When I’m born, I’ll emerge head first reciting the alphabet or spouting off multiplication tables, or even verse after verse of Shakespeare. ‘Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers,’ or ‘Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of mea
t.’ Brilliant.

  Mother is poorly today. She’s lying flat on her back with two cushions supporting her neck, and two aspirins having already slipped down her throat. Eyes tightly closed; she’s mumbling nonsense (nothing new there then). She has backache and so do I. She’s also taking sleeping pills, which means, so am I.

  Early this morning the telephone rang. It was Dara. Sounded so upset I put my newly acquired, caring skills into practice. Her parents were arguing and accidentally, I guess, let it slip Dara was a mistake. In the world of the unborn, we call them ‘stowaways.’ I didn’t think Dara was a mistake and told her so. Mrs Doo can be so uncaring at times.

  Anton has bought mother a car. A Citroen 2CV. Dad (biological) once said that a 2CV was wound up with a rubber band, then accelerates away at 20mph whilst the driver screams, ‘watch this baby skid.’

  Late evening. Our family doctor has criticised mother for not having a flu injection. He’s insisting she receives one for the sake of the baby.

  Heard rumours of a worldwide, winter flu epidemic this year, possibly coming out of North Korea. Mother has come to the conclusion, I don’t need protection. Drastic measures are called for. If I drink enough of my amniotic fluid, then, just maybe, I’ve done a DIY on myself.

  Tuesday 4th November.

  My biological father will soon be celebrating his birthday, so mother has promised him a special present at the ‘pink’ store, Twinkles. His favourite. Mother thoughtfully cut out five, shop coupons from the local rag, and if she adds another five pounds, the Twinkle store promises to double the amount.

  Wednesday 5th November.

  Tallulah thinks she’s ill, and probably is, considering the number of fur balls she’s been coughing up recently. Mother rang vet Toby Browne-Smith, but Toby was not convinced a visit was necessary. I thought he sounded very unhappy. His voice was even threatening towards mother. This has probably something to do with our family history over false call-outs. Browne-Smith insisted mother catch the cat even if she was pregnant. He hates chasing Tallulah in our back garden.

  Mother foolishly fed Tallulah a plate of high-energy breakfast this morning. Big mistake. By the time the vet arrived, Tallulah had bolted. Browne-Smith was furious. The tale-tale signs of anger showed in his steaming, contorted face. It expanded like a balloon, all stretched and red. Thought he would explode any moment.

  Tallulah eventually caught, but vet thinks mother is a complete imbecile. Know how he feels.

  5.56pm. Mother received a telephone call from a girl representing the Jolly Rodgers Holiday Tour Company. Appears she has won a holiday for two. Where? Mother didn’t know. Too excited for trivialities like destinations, but in the excitement, she did offer the nice girl a free holiday.

  Mother eventually came to her senses. Now the faceless girl on the end of the phone is doing a stroppy and threatening to offer it to the runner-up. Mother offered the girl one hundred pounds for her silence. Could do without the bad newspaper publicity.

  6.46pm. Tallulah forcibly returned home from the vets. Has disgraced herself (again). Two part-time, teenage helpers on a school work-experience course are now so traumatised by Tallulah’s antics; they say they’ll never work at a veterinary practice ever again.

  Discovered Australia is our holiday destination. Anton said he would love to join us but will be busy skiing in Austria. Just the two of us then.

  8.05pm. Turned up late at the local firework display. The guy on top of the bonfire looked just like Uncle Billy. In the semi-dark, a little girl’s voice shouted, ‘burn the guy.’

  Spotted a friend in the crowd. My unborn mate, Tommy Ato. Just returned from a family trip to his native Japan. His dad is full-on Japanese, but his mother is all over the place, being half-English, with a smudge of Jew, a drop of Tibetan and the rest Arab.

  His dad will name him Red if a boy and Blush if a girl, but I prefer Tommy.

  Waved repeatedly at Tommy but he couldn’t have seen me. Probably preoccupied with the rotten racist who tried to throw his mother into the bonfire.

  9.07pm. Racist was kicked by Mr Ato, and then thrown into the bonfire.

  9.09pm. Mr Ato arrested by a police officer who obviously didn‘t know better. Mrs Ato pleaded her husband’s innocence to the police officer whilst trying to bribe him.

  9.10pm. Mrs Ato arrested for trying to bribe a police officer. What happened to the racist? He’ll be taking up valuable NHS bed space in an Intensive Care Ward.

  Thursday 6th November.

  Dara says the racist thug has taken a turn for the worse in Intensive Care. Even better, news filtering down from the hot-off-the-press internal news wire, states that my on strike work-force have come to their senses, and with overtime, should be stretching me towards 9 cm in length very soon, with a weight of 20 grams by the end of the week.

  Bad news. Mother is planning to gatecrash a dance class tonight. Problem. This dance class is co-run by New Kid on the Block. Could end up being one very bloody affair.

  Our roof has leaked again. Hasn’t stopped raining all day. Furniture very soggy and all because mother wouldn’t pay a roofer to repair a loose tile.

  Friday. 7th November.

  Had a fight with New Kid last night. Our mothers were dancing embarrassingly to loud techno music, their tums repeatedly hitting into each other. I dodged a flailing punch from New Kid, but landed my very own right uppercut to his chin.

  Ignoring the fight, the evening turned out better than expected. A Russian gang of unborn triplets were doing the Conga with twins Zilli and Zalli trying the Tango, and Dara and I danced the Quickstep. New Kid sulked, so it was perfect.

  Anton rang with an apology. Says he’ll be returning to England Saturday week. She accepts his ‘lame’ excuse of a heavy workload, but I reckon he is seeing a chalet girl. I heard a girl breathing heavily next to Anton.

  Mother is lying on her bed with a funny cigarette, feeling depressed and staring gormlessly through glazed eyes at her framed Betty Blue poster on the wall. ‘Where are you Betty when I need you?’ she cried. My mother is off her rocker.

  Saturday 8th November.

  Evening. A large, ‘made in china,’ Guy Fawkes rocket was tossed through our letterbox, except the idiot forgot to light the touch paper. A Jack in the Box would have been funnier.

  Week Thirteen.

  This week marks the end of three months of frantic creation. Less chance of miscarriage. That’s a relief. In addition, my eyes are on the march, steadily creeping closer together and making me appear increasingly human like. I’ll miss not being able to look in two directions at the same time, but I guess one must move with the times.

  Ears also making fast tracks to their correct positions. Apart from on-site scaffolding, I now have pulleys and chains. Life is such a beach, or is it a ‘ball’? Oh, who cares? Let’s call it a beach ball.

  Sunday 9th November.

  Mother, me, Dempsey and Tallulah slept all day.

  Monday 10th November.

  Rumours are spreading that Dara and New Kid are ‘seeing’ each other. I will confront her.

  I have written out a list of Christmas presents. My first and last.

  Xmas list.

  Dara (Cardboard cut-out of me and her favourite perfume)

  Mum (Alcoholics Anonymous yearly subscription)

  Dad (Perfume again)

  Anton (Cigar, if I must. Not Cuban. A mass produced smoke will do)

  Zilla & Zalli (Handcuffs)

  Blubber (Frilly-hanky)

  Pompous Twit (Union Jack socks)

  Sir Bernard McDaffady (Hand-made Cuban cigar)

  Lady Liza McDaffady (Hand-made headscarf and cigar. Noticed her smoking the other day)

  Lady Jane Delicious McDaffady (Hand-made nightie. No cigar.)

  List to be continued at later date…

  Sir Bernard McDaffady is our landlord who enjoys smelly Cuban cigars. He’s a Scottish Aristocrat and wears an ancient McDaffady kilt. Mother says he�
�s a rogue and shouldn’t be trusted. Why not? He often sends mother letters, so he must be nice. Mother says he owns the whole street and six more nearby. The McDaffady family often drive past in their chauffeur driven, tartan Bentley, and like to wave to everyone, even the tenants who peer out behind lace, net curtains.

  I’m not a crawler, but people in the street like the Scottish, McDaffady Clan, with all their wealth, so I’m promoting them to the top of my first-ever, list of Christmas presents.

  Evening. Went to the cinema with Dara and Blubber. Watched a re-run of, ‘The Titanic.’ It turned out a real sloppy tear-jerker. Dara thought it beautiful and romantic (she tried putting an arm around me, but couldn’t). Blubber cried of course (slipped off his perch and fell into his ‘amniotic sea’). The sound system in the cinema was dead loud.

  Outside the cinema, I asked everyone if they enjoyed the film I paid for. Dara thought it cool but Blubber said, ‘What film?’ Idiot.

  Tuesday 11th November. Early.

  Postman arrived early. Dempsey somersaulted in the air and cleverly snapped up the letters. Mother decided the only letter worth sticking back together again was the housing giro.

  Mid-morning. Mother still clicking the keys of her laptop. She’s been surfing the world’s finest fashion shops for the past 2 hours, and leaving her e-mail in every inbox so as to receive up-to-date downloads on cut-price bargains. Also browsed the NASA website by mistake. I thought, ‘wow’ this looks interesting. Just about to sign-up and leave mother’s e-mail, when she rudely (I thought), surfed straight off onto a Milanese fashion store. Always thinking about herself.

  Mid-afternoon. Mother slipped on a disgusting puddle of Dempsey’s sick. The dog is definitely not feeling his usual self, but mother can’t afford another round of the vet’s extortionate bills. He’ll just have to continue being sick a little longer. If it were up to me (which it isn’t), I’d stop paying the rent for one week and treat the old mutt.