The Absurd Secret Diary Of An Unborn Baby

by David N Bending

  Mother’s decision was, unusual for her, quick and final. She would nurse Uncle Billy, and quite naturally, he thought she was an angel sent down from heaven. Give me strength.

  Week Seventeen.

  I’m weighing 120 grams and I’ve just passed the 16cm mark in height, so maybe I could be destined for a job where height is very important. A high jumper, basketball player, window cleaner.

  Many major things will happen this week. My body will catch up with my oversize head, so that everything will be in proportion. My ears will leap out from the sides of my head, settling in their final position. Legs will lengthen and bones will ossify and become harder.

  Circulatory system will kick-start and enter a normal routine, with lungs inhaling and exhaling amniotic fluid (Yuk, but must be done).

  Sunday 7th December. Early morning.

  Arrived down at breakfast early to start the first day of our holiday. According to Uncle, we were late. ‘A farm doesn’t run with lazy legs.’ he profoundly said, with a growl. He enjoys scolding mother. He had already been up for ‘well over an hour,’ he said, and to make matters worse, he’d already scoffed the last bacon rasher. Wouldn’t have hurt him to fry us an English breakfast. I was starving.

  Like all his excuses, this one was particularly weak. It centered on his cows. He claimed, ‘They don’t milk themselves.’

  Mid-Afternoon. One of the farm ducks fell down the well, but the well was dry, so we sent one of the farm dogs down in a bucket.

  It was dead hard work rewinding the handle with the dog in the bucket and a dead, limp duck, hanging from its mouth. The unfortunate duck is our duck-stew supper tonight.

  Evening. Thunderstorms forecast tonight, pursued by heavy snow. Already, the windows are sabre-rattling on their hinges. Mother has put an extra thick, fleecy sweater on to keep warm, (with a little urging from me) and to stop my unstable body temperature plummeting.

  Uncle Billy says he doesn’t feel the cold. Being a farmer, he says, ‘makes you a man.’ He should think of others who aren’t yet men.

  Uncle handed mother a stained sheet of paper. Mother likes screwing up her face.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘What does it look like? My Will of course.’

  Hand on his farmer’s heart. Does he really think any law-abiding solicitor, would take a blind bit of notice of a dog chewed, beer stained, scrap of paper seriously? Nope.

  Uncle Billy’s Will (written last night).

  1. Leave 109 free-range chickens to Aunt Doris (there were 110, but a cunning fox got into the pen two nights ago. Aunt Doris lives in the city, so what would she want with 109 chickens?)

  2. Leave his best shotgun to mother (six-bore gun as a christening present. Ever heard of a shotgun birth? Seriously, the man is a raving loony)

  3. To leave all his silverware to the nearby Cats and Dogs Home (what a load of old bin)

  4. Leave the family jewelry to Aunt Doris (promised mother the best of the family sparklers)

  5. Ramshackle Farm (has promised the villagers a bonfire to remember. Farm to be burnt down. Doesn’t want family to inherit. Hiding a secret maybe, up in the attic, down in the cellar, under the floorboards?)

  6. Sheep to be slaughtered

  7. Jersey Cows, apart from Daisy, to be slaughtered

  8. Horses to be raffled off at the village fete

  Any left-over items not officially listed, to be sold off at the local, young farmers club.

  Monday 8th December. Early morning disaster.

  Mother tripped over one of Uncle Billy’s spitting, farm cats, hitting her head hard against the bedroom wardrobe. I was in the middle of practicing a very perilous, death-defying, balancing act on my umbilical cord. I fell off.

  Because of the storm, the windows all but blew-in last night. How could mother sleep through that howling racket? Come to think of it, how did I?

  Nearly choked this morning on my amniotic fluid, but drowning is out of the question these days, bearing in mind I’m actually breathing in the stuff.

  Uncle is raving on about selling the necklace (good for him) to pay the costs from last night’s storm damage. Mother is devastated by the news (tough). Uncle had promised her the ‘sparklies’ when his heart finally gave out.

  Lunch hour. Sitting around the table. Uncle Billy has given-in to mother’s tearful, but well-rehearsed, tantrums. He’s decided to sell one of his prize cows instead of the necklace. Should be enough to pay for the storm damage, albeit one cow down. I could think of another one to put down, after I’m born, of course.

  Mid-afternoon. Uncle Billy, whilst having his feet massaged, sprung a cruel surprise on mother. I could have laughed, instead, I cried.

  He wants to come and live with us. How could anyone be so uncaring? I wouldn’t get any attention (not that I do now, but at least I had hope).

  Mother has reluctantly agreed to allow Uncle Billy to move-in with us. I’m leaving home.

  Late afternoon. 5.07 precisely. Uncle Billy and mother had a row. He wants a south facing bedroom, but that’s our bedroom. ‘A north facing bedroom will affect my arthritis,’ he says. Mother says he is all moan and groan, so decided against uncle moving in. Hoorah.

  Late, late afternoon. Mother has forgiven Uncle Billy. He’ll be residing with us after all.

  Tuesday 9th December. Home sweet home.

  Arrived home safe. Dara left a phone message on the answer-phone. She’s invited me to go bobsleighing with her down our street (the snow is deep. Enough to bury a seventeen-week, unborn standing on tiptoes).

  Had a threatening telephone call. The coward (New Kid for sure) didn’t possess the courage to leave his name and number. He’s so very immature for his age.

  Discovered that whilst we were at Ramshackle Farm, Tallulah made a nuisance of herself. Swallowed our neighbour’s goldfish. When I’m born, I think I’ll invest in a dumb goldfish. Watching a fish swimming around and around in circles, will remind me of what I left behind in mother’s womb.

  Dempsey looked extremely pleased to be home. No doubt, he’ll re-affirm his authoritarian, territory rights, like chasing Tallulah.

  At first, chasing cows down on Ramshackle Farm was entertaining, but sometimes it’s also fun to be chased. Uncle’s prize cows are too ‘blue blood’ to chase anything, unlike other farmers’ cows. Maybe uncle’s cows have caught Foot and Mouth, so they can‘t run.

  Next week, Uncle Billy will become a fully paid-up member of our household. Mother is putting on a brave face (theoretically for her, that’s harder than putting make-up on in the mornings).

  Uncle Billy has promised to bring along the sparkly necklace. Mother can wear it for one hour each day, he says. I understand uncle’s reasoning, after all, familiarity breeds contempt. She could lapse into laziness; after all, she now has an obligation to pamper Uncle Billy.

  The holiday at Ramshackle Farm has fuelled my desperation to see Dara. Unborn love can never be quenched.

  Wednesday 10th December.

  Mother vacuumed the house in the morning, and I vacuumed my cell in the afternoon (not actually, stupid), and then helped her wash the dirty dishes from the night before. After, we walked to our local Tesco. Mother bought foods I usually avoid.

  A double size can of lentil soup, Scottish porridge (yuk), prawn crackers, barbequed meatballs (who can honestly say where meatballs come from), extra authentic, hot Indian, sub-continent curry. The list is endless. Will I be poisoned tonight?

  Left the supermarket, but discovered our car had been towed away. Why did mother have to park in a space reserved for ambulances?

  Caught the bus nearly all the way home until it broke-down. Watched it getting towed back to the depot. Walked home. No money for a taxi.

  Uncle Billy rang late that morning. Wanted to know if our house could take his favourite goat. Mother swore, then thought it over. Uncle Billy says goats produce milk. Hmm.

  Finally persuaded mother to allow the goat to share the h
ouse. After re-considering, I changed my mind. I don’t think the backyard is a suitable and hygienic place for a goat, but mother disagreed.

  Has mum considered the health hazards of keeping a goat? We’ll no doubt catch something horrible, like fleas, worms, or BSE, bad breath or even the plague. Wasn’t it goats that spread the Black Death in medieval days, or was that fleas? Moreover, has anyone even considered consulting Dempsey and Tallulah. Don’t they have a say?

  Thursday 11th December.

  Had a foreign looking postcard delivered today. Postman Pat (or in this case, George) was chatting up a new blonde; a twenty-something neighbour at number 56. Why can’t he deliver our post first, then if he must, chat up the ‘blonde bit’ later?

  The card is from my ‘bona fide’ father. He’s found himself a new friend called Jeffrey Arrowhead and he says they are happily living together in a dust-bowl of a town called Koorbali, in Northern Australia.

  With my ever-improving eyesight, I can tell it’s a place I wouldn’t want to live. Too dusty and too hot, but I’m happy he’s finally settling down with his soul mate.

  Friday 12th December.

  Why are tongues so brown in the mornings? Downloaded info on brown tongues, all from my ‘internal-rolling-news-wire-service.’ It says a brown tongue is caused by an attitude of bad living. Sounds a perfect description of mother’s life.

  When I kick mother, it ‘unfortunately’ causes her more pain than it used to. This situation has arisen (rottenly for her) because my leg bones are ossifying. I can kick harder now without seriously hurting myself. Mother might be a bloody pain most of my waking hours, but I guess she is my mother. I’ll give her a little breathing space.

  Early Afternoon. Passed New Kid’s house. Mother had wanted a long walk to escape our ‘bleating’ Uncle going on about farming, and how the E.U never offered him enough subsidies. Farmers have it so tough these days.

  A special delivery van was parked outside New Kid’s house. Watched as the courier driver handed over a parcel. Wonder what deadly substance he’s passed over?

  Mother is thinking about working for a living, instead of relying on state handouts… It’s seriously hard to believe, I know, but strangely true.

  Saturday 13th December.

  Woke up in the dead of night with headache and delirious cold sweat. Brought on because I hadn’t bought Christmas cards for my friends.

  Dara likes pictures of kittens wearing glasses. Something deadly psychological going on with her. Then there’s Pompous Twit. He’s into country pursuits, like shooting and hunting fair game, but doesn’t seem too fair to me.

  As for New Kid, a picture of a skeleton, rotting inside a prison cell at Dartmoor Prison, would do nicely.

  Disco Dez likes partying, so a chorus of dancing girls doing the Can Can would be perfect.

  Do I send Bouboo and Rollo-Blag’s parents Christmas or sympathy cards? Maybe a couple of whoopee cushions. Bouboo would have appreciated that.

  New Kid rang. Wanted to meet me in the local grocery. I’m sure I sensed menaces attached, or was it just my imagination.

  Summoned enough energy to persuade mother to put on her coat. Within half an hour, we were in town shopping for carrots and parsley (which I hate). Why can’t mother buy tomatoes and pineapples?

  ‘Boo,’ said New Kid. He tried surprising me, his mother hiding behind a cold, storage cabinet, but he failed miserably. I should have expected some kind of trick from him inside Arfen Jones’s grocery store.

  With mother and New Kid’s mother chin-wagging for what seemed forever, it presented me with the opportunity to probe deeper into New Kid’s mental, but disturbing behaviour.

  He offered me protection.

  ‘Protection from what?’ I asked.

  ‘Me, of course,’ then he demonstrated how big his fists now were (still no bigger than mine). I couldn’t help but laugh. He became very emotional and weird.

  He insists I need a ‘heavy,’ or a ‘minder,’ to carry out protection duties, he says, just in the ‘likely’ occurrence of a sneaky unborn trying to muscle-in on Dara. I reminded him I was her minder and personal bodyguard. Her protector from all evil.

  ‘It’s she who wants protecting from you,’ I enlightened him. Don’t think New Kid saw the funny side of my remark. Tough! I must have hit a red, raw nerve because his face turned blacker than mother’s ‘party night’ eye shadow.

  One of the local yobs again chucked a brick through the shop window. The police most probably will want to question me at some date as a witness, but on the other hand, police now take 45 minutes to attend incidences at Arfen Jones’s store. It used to be 15.

  I guess I over-did the power of persuasion bit on mother. She threw open the store’s fridge door. The door struck New Kid’s mother in the stomach. I can honestly place my hand on my tiny beating heart and say, ‘I didn’t mean for that to happen.’

  New Kid was thrown against his cell wall, lying unconscious for well over 10 minutes; his mother sprawled out on the tiles.

  Would he survive? Would she survive? Do you think New Kid will forgive me? Do you think his mother will forgive my mother; after all, it was mum who physically carried out the dirty deed. All will be revealed.

  Week Eighteen.

  What a week that was. Every day from every week, something new happens in my so-called life. My height (so I have been told) will soar past 20cm, and my weight is estimated at 220grams. Heady days are looming.

  Speaking of heads, mine is coming along nicely. Eyes are looking dashingly swanky. Dara might even swoon after me.

  Swoon in the womb. Goddamn Miss Dara, words are so much fun. Someday when I am released from my dungeon, I’m going straight to the best bookshops in town where I will read every book until boss-eyed (like I used to be). Maybe I’ll be an author. Wonder how many books a night an author must read? Perhaps authors do not read, they just write and gripe. Do authors like to write in hot rooms, warm rooms or cold rooms?

  If only mother knew how much thin skin I have, she would invest in my health by heating a room or two. When there’s no heating switched on in the house, it can get really cold.

  Quite possibly, I could be a good investment for the future, especially if I turn out to be a bloody good author. However, I would only want to become one if I was successful and rich, otherwise what’s the point in writing?

  Well, back to my downloaded page. This week will see my foetal skin, which is presently thin and transparent, start growing, getting thicker as juicy fat deposits gurgle beneath. Oil glands will secrete a waxy matter called vermix.

  Vermix will safeguard me, protecting my skin from chapping, abrasions and hardening. I have even been offered a protective coat of myelin (which I’ve gratefully accepted. Every unborn does).

  This stuff will grow; reaching and spreading out like a growing entity over the whole length of my spinal cord. What a lucky bum I am.

  Sunday 14th December.

  The room is cold. I’m shivering and rattling everything in here. The swimming pool could also do with a new filtering unit because it’s getting a bit messy in here.

  Late afternoon. The doorbell rang. Mother only wearing a nightie.

  A smartly dressed courier holding a brown package stamped urgent was at our door. I recognised the handwriting at once. It was the hand of New Kid on the Block (written by his mother, of course). In the past, he had written postcards to Dara.

  I tried every trick I knew to stop mother from opening that package, but it was hopeless.

  Mother picked up a pair of blunt scissors then angrily tried cutting the string.

  It was mental torture watching her, unable to intervene. She found the one and only sharp knife at the back of the kitchen drawer. One hasty cut and … ‘BOOM’

  A custard pie exploded.

  New Kid is a bloody terrorist, a lunatic. I would shoot him if I could. He got to me through my mother. She now sadly resembles a custard-faced monster.


  Late Evening. Mother spent the evening in the bathroom. Okay, so she had a sticky, custard-pie hanging off her face, but why blame me?

  Monday 15th December.

  Mother is lying in bed trying desperately to think who could have sent the exploding pie.

  ‘Yes’, mother screamed. ‘It must be you!’ Had she uncovered the guilty party? Being wrong could seriously jeopardise my future happiness. I dived into my swimming pool.

  Mother rushed down the stairs, wobbling ungainly. Picked up the phone and dialed. It was a number I knew only too well. It was Dara’s.

  It can be really lousy having a mother like mine, especially one known for making quick-draws with her mouth. Any future plans of happiness with Dara I had dreamt of, were about to be screwed-up for good.

  If only mother could grasp the extent of the evidence on hand in her pea of a brain, then she’d have to accept that all guilt pointed to New Kid’s mother. Every day, New Kid’s mother is becoming increasingly erratic in her conduct. In my eyes (newly forward facing), she is the number one suspect.

  Dara relentlessly blasted my eardrums with insults (very unlike her). She thinks I should ‘control’ my delinquent mother. She’s not doing my delicate hearing any favours with her strong pair of lungs.

  Women are devoted to their nails, and if Dara could get hold of me, I’m sure her nails would leave intercity rail networks etched north to south, east to west, all over my skin.

  Late Evening. Dara has finally come to her senses. She’s realised New Kid is the guilty party.

  Tuesday 16th December.

  Must write out Christmas cards for my friends. I have ten friends, so I’ll send 10 and half cards. New Kid gets the half (not that he deserves any).

  Late evening. Dara said she received a dirty phone call. Nothing new there then. I reckon it must be New Kid. No one has recently caught sight of his mother. There are strange goings on down in these parts of the woods.