Disaster. Dara’s leg dropped off, as did her head, then remembered we had a jar of homemade (superglue comes to mind), sticky toffee, in the food pantry.
Blubber’s latest career move is what you would call, ‘pull the other one.’ He’s decided on a career in dentistry, but doesn’t like blood, spittle, hot breath, or looking up other people’s noses, unlike Pompous who looks down, screaming patients, or taking decisions. I reminded him of his responsibilities to his patients. He would have to decide which teeth would require the old heave-ho.
He said he hadn’t thought of that. Now he is having second thoughts on a future career in dentistry. He didn’t cry.
Dara’s iced cake looked great with its two, pink ribbons and blue candles. Couldn’t find any pink candles). Persuaded mother to draw a wobbly womb with a baby holding a wobbly cake. Dara will be well wobbly chuffed when she realises it’s from me.
Bouboo has confirmed her invitation. Her family is descended directly from a long line of mortuary owners. She describes them as ‘the meat houses.’
Bouboo once dated a boyfriend she really liked, until he callously dumped her. He spread false rumours that she was a nose picker. All lies, of course. She’d never do anything so disgusting. Retribution was swift. She persuaded her old man, by means of persuading her mother, to mail the ex-boyfriend a threatening letter followed by an old mouldy, severed finger taken from the mortuary. As a result, the boy’s mother nearly died from a heart attack. Fell into a coma for two days.
Thursday 27th November… Dara’s Party.
‘Brilliant day, brilliant food,’ said everyone.
Met up with a number of my delinquent friends, some old, some new, but mostly everyone special in their own, peculiar, unborn ways. You would insist on remembering their mobile numbers and twitter them every day.
Tamsyn Highkicker is the new girl in town and same age as me. Being American, Tamsyn has a wish to be a cheer-leader for the Bucking Broncos.
Maria the Spaniard persuaded her mother to play the castanets and dance the flamenco.
Jonas is a spiritual healer. His father is directly descended from a long line of witch doctors from Koboo Land in Africa. Now he runs a very successful Witch-Doctoring company in the spiritual heart of Soho, I am told. Even our present prime minister and his wife (forget their names), are known to pop their heads in from time to time.
Velmina the Jamaican, likes limbo dancing under her mother’s umbilical. Velmina is so experienced; she holds the World Limbo, Umbilical Record for Unborns.
Another friend is a ‘blue blood’ called… Rollo-Blag, an aristocrat. Rollo’s father owns Bohun-Ben Hall, somewhere in the deepest and darkest corner of Devonshire. Americans would jus luv him.
Two others I scarcely know are Lilly the Filly, so named because she prances around in neat circles in the womb with a face shaped like a Lilly, and Dove Melody who sings like a songbird.
Rollo-Blag and Bouboo. What an unlikely match. Only had eyes for one-another (fortunate to have forward positioned, eyes). Rollo-Blag stayed over-night at my house, as did Bouboo. He slept on the settee and Bouboo on a camp bed (their mothers, of course). Camp bed collapsed during the night, waking Bouboo, who suffers with mental stress, not to mention concussion.
Friday 28th November.
Mother suffering a stomach upset. Has eaten a tiny breakfast.
The older Dara becomes, the more drop-dead gorgeous she gets. I think it’s the pigtail hairstyle that gets the guys going. It’s true, her left eye is seriously trying to catch up with the ‘race me if you can’ right eye. However, who am I to complain, she’s a week older than me. I have all that to come.
Dempsey has decided he wants to stay up late tonight and watch recorded highlights of Crufts. Would I be wide-of-the-mark in seriously thinking he fancied a certain Dalmatian bitch, called Molly, blatantly strutting her stuff?
Mother scolded him because, with all the excitement around, he barked too loud. Poor mutt. I karate-kicked mother in retribution.
I wanted to watch a late night movie called, ‘Don’t Throttle The Cat, The Dog Will Do,’ but Dempsey hogged the remote control, waiting for Crufts.
Mother is snoozing, and my stomach is beginning to rumble. Have not eaten since breakfast. The bitch!
Blubber has bought his first mobile phone and mountain bike. Decided to wrap the wheels in fairy lights for the dark evenings. He’s barking mad.
Saturday’s weather forecast is for squally showers followed by heavy rain. Think I’ll stay in tomorrow.
Saturday 29th November. Rains all day, even in hospital.
It rained today, so we shopped until we nearly dropped.
Bumped into that young, sweet charity worker in the street again. This time, he ran off. Strange lad.
Mother collapsed soon after. When the ambulance arrived, it came with flashing blue lights and screaming siren, but I suppose they know best.
It was so embarrassing, my mother collapsing like that. When she hit the floor with a loud thud, I hit the roof. My head banged this way and that, legs twisting around my neck.
I frowned, I squinted, I raised my eyebrows and nearly pulled out my newly arrived hair, desperately trying to disentangle my legs, and finally, I found time to suck my thumb for reassurance.
Lying flat-out on the only four-wheeled trolley available in hospital, mother’s blood pressure plummeted faster than a skydiver heading towards base camp.
Checked my pulse before fainting when a nurse took a blood sample. Came around ten minutes later only to discover a group of starry-eyed, student nurses, peering down at me.
One male student nurse, rubbed cooling gel onto mother’s stomach. That was very thoughtful. Another washed her hands thoroughly before using an ultra-sound device on me. Very thoughtful again. These people actually care. Hope mother is taking careful notes.
My day was mostly taken-up with mother complaining about the state of the NHS, demanding to know why the ceiling was leaking.
‘Because it’s raining cats and dogs,’ said matron. Even she frowned. I think the nurses forced a bottle of sleeping tablets down mother’s throat that night.
Feel … drowsy…this is heaven…
Week Sixteen
By the end of this week, I’ll be approximately 16 cm long and have a weight hovering around the 120 grams mark.
Legs will grow longer than arms, but don’t worry; all my joints and limbs will be mobile, with arms catching up sooner or later.
Fingernails will be completely ‘grown-in’ and ready to use. My gender can be determined by ultrasound this week.
Sunday 30th November. Late afternoon, but who cares.
Kicked out of Cow Minster Hospital. Nurses refused to put-up (their words) with mother’s bad conduct any longer.
She crashed the car on the way home.
Escorted to police station. The majority of the local station’s windows were shattered. Maybe it was rioting-police getting out of control that caused such wanton destruction. Overheard an officer complaining of most of his force either off sick, or seriously thinking about handing in their badges.
Mother was ‘officially’ warned at 6.05pm.
A wintry red sun was setting on the horizon. A case of red sky at night, but definitely not mothers delight.
Desk Officer Madpenny explained to mother the serious trouble she was in, but after an hour of finger-wagging, Madpenny finally smiled and put a comforting arm on mother’s shoulder (what’s all that about?), and whispered in her ear about the lack of attention to road safety whilst driving a moving vehicle. Mother nodded happily.
Monday. 1st December. Thoughts of Xmas.
This will be my first Christmas. Dara says she’ll make me a pair of snowshoes, and thinks throwing snowballs will be fun. I couldn’t help but agree, then New Kid decided he wanted to join in. Could do without his interference.
He claimed his hands were more creative than mine. Says he’ll make a snowman in
my image. I told him to snowball-off down the hill. I think he got the message.
Tuesday. 2nd December.
Today was show-off-your-dog-cat day at our local Dog and Cat Show. The Town Hall holds a show annually.
Dempsey won first prize in the Least Obedient Dog Category. Well done Dempsey. No competition.
I should have persuaded judge Darcey to stamp a life-long ban on Dempsey for what followed next.
What did the crazy mutt do? Only bit a female judge on her jumbo size backside. Resulted in a chain-reaction. From then on, anything that moved was ceremoniously bitten by every cat and dog in the hall.
Rioting broke out. The dog-cat show got suspended. Owners, who should have known better, scratched and clawed each other. Old men threw punches at the judges, with boys and girls wrestling on the floor. It was more confusing than a Christmas pantomime.
Broken noses, snapped ankles, pools of blood, torn clothes, men arrested and women cautioned. Dempsey ought to have been ashamed of himself, even if he was the star-turn. Villain or hero? Depends, I guess, on which side you bark.
Tallulah won first prize in the Best Groomed Cat category. What? She only turned up to keep Dempsey company. Who groomed her anyway? Certainly not mother.
Wednesday. 3rd December. Sink or swim.
Tallulah is basking in glory. Couldn’t help herself. She nudged the silver cup (plastic, but painted silver to fool cats) under Dempsey’s nose.
Dempsey is now in the doghouse and on a strict, starvation diet. A two-day punishment. I would have specified a week, but Dempsey’s large, round and soulful eyes, frequently fool mother, so two days it was.
Late morning. The postman always rings twice. Sang a lovely carol about three wise men, or some rubbish. Gave mother a bill from the Town Hall. Appears she owes £2009 for the willful damage caused by Dempsey. If you ask me, we got off lightly.
Early Afternoon. At the local Swimming Pool. I hate swimming pools. Pregnant women everywhere, splashing about like floundering whales. There are the unborns trying desperately to hang-on to their umbilical-cords for dear life, the badly behaved 2yr olds biding their time until nobody is watching, then endeavouring to drown newly born babies making their swimming debuts.
I swam ten lengths. Wasn’t even exhausted, then mother decided to race the woman with the bright, red lipstick and pursed lips. My amniotic swimming pool resembled a sea of foaming froth as I tried to keep up.
Thursday 4th December. Morning.
Today, I accompanied mother to the anti-natal clinic at St. Margaritas Hospital for her precautionary ultra-sound check. This would establish if I was proceeding as planned.
Nurse Lennard looked very young (hope she knows what she’s doing). Barely out of nappies herself. She said I was a ‘wee bonny lad’ and ‘everything was where it should be.’ Then, nurse Lennard pointed and giggled. ‘There, see?’ she said, trying to suppress a laugh.
‘No I don’t.’ I said.
‘Oh yes,’ said mother. ‘It’s bigger than most, isn’t it?’
What’s so funny? The NHS shouldn’t pay nurses to laugh like that.
Mother mentioned how it was a very common ‘thingy’ that ran through our paternal family line.
12.01 pm. After the ultra-scan, suddenly mother overdosed on brain cells that missed the boat a long time ago. She remembered she had an appointment with Dr Stephanopoulos. His office was opposite Brer Rabbit children’s ward, along Pooh corridor.
Dr Steph, (as mother likes to call him) is half-Greek, half Sicilian (most likely Greek, Mafioso).
We arrived late. I knocked, and then mother knocked. We entered. ‘Ah, Miss Summer, nice to see you again.’ Again? What’s he after?
Dr Steph asked how regularly she was drinking. I decided honesty was the only policy, so I said, ‘About four times a week, no, I tell a lie, more like seven, doctor.’
Mother insisted she only drank no more than five times a year, at the most, if she must. I just knew Dr Steph wouldn’t be fooled.
His eyebrows arched, but more in annoyance, after all, her past drinking record was no state secret. Looking at all the bottles of drink behind him, nor is his I think.
He knew she knew the truth, and she knew he knew the truth. A stand-off was called for. Mother stood staring at him defiantly, like a teenager, but from under his bushy eyebrows, Dr Steph bared the cynical eyes of an all-knowing parent.
But then his confidence drained quite noticeably. Had he met his match? I think he sensed from her the uncomfortable combination of drink on the breath, and a rising temper. A subtle change of direction was called for. He discovered a diet sheet in his desktop drawer, outlining the rights and wrongs of anti-natal caring.
It was my unborn duty, I believed, to explain to the doctor, the regularity in which mother wires herself to the ceiling; head heavy with drink as she hits the bottle.
I still get bruised, battered and feel bloody miserable in here at times, doctor. But old Stephanopoulos was not listening.
Late evening. Snow falling heavily.
Friday 5th December. Just two clicks off midnight. Sleepwalking.
Mother prefers sleepwalking on a Friday, a little before midnight. Used to be Tuesdays. I prefer Mondays. Get it out of the way, that’s what I say.
Tonight, I negotiated a path around chairs and tables, not forgetting Dempsey and Tallulah’s scattered toys. Eventually, we made it to the fridge.
A blueberry muffin disappeared down mother’s throat, swiftly followed by half a carton of milk. I asked for a pineapple juice. My powers of persuasion failed.
Did haul mother outside for a walk in the deep, snow-carpeted garden; sniffed the crisp, night air; dusted off a layering of powder snow from the bird table where Tallulah was snoring; stared up at the clear, night sky, with spy satellites probably photographing mother. They were no doubt, noting down any change in her sleeping patterns, and finally, we returned to bed. Down to the blueberry muffin repeating on her, we said hello to the toilet, every hour, on the hour.
Saturday 6th December. Morning.
Terrible news. Dara telephoned. Her voice was shaking. She said, ‘Rollo-Blag and Bouboo are no more.’
Bouboo and her boyfriend Rollo were killed in a plane crash. She thought the plane came down somewhere in North London. Instinctively, I knew it was the plane I had seen Monday afternoon.
Gently, I persuaded mother to lift up the mobile phone from under a tear, soaked cushion, and telephone Blubber’s mother. Blubber had already heard the terrible news, as had Pompous Twit who was crying (that’s a first).
Bouboo and Rollo were bosom pals; two happy-go-lucky unborns who were meant for each other. Now, only their memories survive.
Afternoon. The telephone rang. It was Uncle Billy. Would mother visit him and stay for a couple of days down on Ramshackle Farm? If her face could tell a story, it was now. Mother looked horrified. Getting her clothes dirty and smelly on a farm was not her scene, man.
Why was Uncle Billy offering mother an immediate vacation? Here was a sister he hadn’t seen in over two years. But the surprises didn’t stop there. He offered mother the opportunity in taking possession of his ex-wife’s Edwardian, blue diamond, red ruby necklace. Funny really, how the incentive of a glittery object of great value, can transform mother’s thinking.
From that moment on, mother showered Uncle Billy with unrestrained praise.
‘What a lovely farm you own,’ and ‘How often do you milk the cows?’ and ‘Oh, the smell of sweet green grass. I just love watching yellow buttercups snuggling up to the bluebells.’
Evening. 6.00pm. Tallulah has fervently licked her saucer spotless. Waits for seconds. She can wait until the cows come home, as far as I’m concerned. Dempsey thinks, in his doggy-peculiar-smelly-thinking, kind of way, that he’s coming to Ramshackle Farm with us. How wrong can a dog be? Dream on.
Evening. 6.05pm. Dempsey jumped into the back of the car. I’m sure he sniggered.
; Waved goodbye to Tallulah, praying she’d keep her promise and take good care of the house. Mother wagged her finger at Tallulah, emphasising the trust we were bestowing upon her.
6.09pm. Reversed into the garage door. Mother is deadly dangerous on the accelerator.
7.17pm. Nearly hit an old woman. She was cycling (I’d call it wobbling) along a narrow lane, a good deal too fast for her age, I think.
7.22pm. Hit an old man cycling in a straight line and well within the laws of the English highway. Mother did contemplate stopping, but if we did, he might want to sue us.
Any minute now, I’m expecting a flashing, blue light, loud siren and a bobbing blue, police officer’s hat to ruin our day, but thankfully, the plods must have been dozing in their cars.
Uncle Billy and his Ramshackle farm was nowhere to be seen. We were lost, and up a lane without a paddle, or in this case, without in-car navigation.
Started to suck my thumb, then plumped for a finger or two instead.
About to flash-down a passing police car (with flashing, blue light and deafening siren) when Dempsey spotted the entrance to Uncle Billy’s farm. He barked.
We sped past the gate. Dented the side of the car.
Almost immediately, Uncle Billy greeted us. A shotgun going off makes such a loud noise, don’t you think? He waved it furiously in our direction. His eyes looked dead wild. Even though it was dark, I knew it was a gun, because it flashed, and went BANG.
Uncle demanded to know, ‘Who goes there?’ but only AFTER he pulled the trigger. We have one headlight now.
After a short argument (nothing unusual), Uncle Billy ushered us into the farmhouse.
He wasted little time in getting down to business. He temptingly wrapped a sparkling, blue diamond, and red ruby necklace, around mother’s neck.
What was his game?
Apparently, he says, he’s dying of leukaemia. Wants mother to nurse him until he keels over. Must admit, I feel sorry for the old grump now. On the other hand, mother has responsibilities that are more important now, like me. How could she possibly look after two sick invalids? One of us is dying; the other could be born deformed.
The Absurd Secret Diary Of An Unborn Baby Page 5