He must like virtual reality machines because he’s now skiing and showing off by sticking out one leg and standing on his head. Likes doing that.
Uncle broke his left leg. Well, the skiing machine did announce he’d broken a leg, but Uncle definitely looks okay to me.
A grey haired, middle-aged man has just sneezed over me. However, he did apologise, so I guess that’s okay. I was moments away from accepting his apology, when he suddenly rubbed mother’s bare stomach. I guess bare tummies are irresistible to some men. Mother slapped him.
Slept the entire homeward journey. Dead tired after the day’s events.
Saturday 27th December.
Uncle Billy has left. That’s the good news. He’s returned to Ramshackle Farm to check that yobs or gypsies haven’t done a wrecking on his place, except he forgets it’s not his property any longer. The new owners will be seriously irritated seeing his disgruntled face pressed up hard against the windows of their property. Must be turning senile or something.
More good news. Uncle Billy was arrested for trying to break into Ramshackle Farm. Bad news. Uncle was let-off with a caution.
Think I’ve got the sniffles. This could mean I’m on the verge of a full-blown flu outbreak. Is my life hanging from a thread? Makes my blood boil to think complete strangers can give you colds and flues.
If my blood did boil, I guess I would be dead, so maybe catching a stranger’s flue isn’t so bad after all.
I would hate to catch New Kid’s flue. Just think how deadly to the human race that would be. Imagine opening one of his e-mails. You could be infected with all sorts of viruses, spreading faster than it takes an unborn to do a cartwheel in the womb.
That reminds me. Must not download suspicious packages into my head for the next few days. A series of warning messages has confirmed there are outside influences preparing to do an onslaught on unborns. Appears deadly viruses are skulking in all corners of the world.
Late Evening. Uncle Billy is in an ugly mood because Tallulah found his secret stash of his best scotch whisky under a floor board. Mother is not happy.
I’m going to bed.
Week Twenty
Detected further hair sprouting from my scalp. So I won’t be born bald.
The areas of my brain responsible for each of the five senses are now developing very nicely thank you, each one a specialist in their own right. Production of new nerve cells are slowing, but existing cells still growing larger which will no doubt cause further complex connections. By the end of the week, I’ll have grown to about 25 cm and weigh about 330 grams. Not bad.
Sunday 28th December.
Slept all day.
Monday 29th December.
Uncle Billy has completely lost his head. He’s bursting balloons. I yelled at him to ‘give it a rest.’ The old fart.
Dad (biological) has telephoned mother and wished her (and me) a happy Christmas. A bit bloody late now! He asked if mother enjoyed eating the delicacies from the food hamper he sent. What treats? What hamper? I’ll put money on the postman nicking our hamper. Thought I saw him chewing on something two days ago. I’ll get mother to complain to the Post Office when she’s sobered up and stringing sentences together.
Late Afternoon. Tallulah is on alcohol-laced lemonade. Clambering up walls, tearing down decorations, and ruining our one and only oil painting, which crashed over Uncle Billy’s snoozing head. ‘That cat is dead,’ says Uncle Billy.
Tuesday 30th December.
Tallulah has gone missing. Good riddance. No more coughing, fluffy thing crawling up under the bed sheets. Week twenty is turning out strange.
Wednesday 31st December.
Slept most of the day.
Nearly Midnight. What’s all the fuss about? So it’s midnight in four minutes from now. Can’t understand what happens on the stroke of midnight that differs from any other night.
Midnight. I was proved dead right, nothing did happen. I’m off to bed.
Two Hours After Midnight. The telephone rang. It was Pompous Twit calling from Hong Kong. He dragged me out of bed just to ask how my New Year party was going. Very thoughtful. I yelled at him to get a life and that, no we did not have a party. He yelled back that I should get a life and he was in the middle of a party. Could I hear it? he yelled. I yelled back I couldn’t. I was lying. He just laughed, and hung up.
Thursday 1st January.
Mother is making New Year resolutions. Seems simple to keep so I will do the same:
I will stop smoking (However, will require mother’s help)
I will stop drinking alcohol (Requires input from mother)
I will stop feeding the dog and cat every day from now on. Starvation may occur but I have no problem with that.
I will stop kicking mother.
I will stop punching mother. She is not a punch bag.
I will pay the taxi-driver instead of getting mother to run off.
I will never pick my nose. One in the family is enough. It’s disgusting.
I could go on but my concentration is wandering. Mother is up to number ten. How did she reach ten so quickly?
Dara rang. Her stepfather was ‘rolling about drunk,’ she said. He’s threatening to walk out. The wife has gone berserk, as they do, and hit her husband over the head, as they do.
Friday 2nd January.
Feeling cold and miserable. Nothing really happened today. A cold, dead day.
Saturday 3rd January. 4am.
Couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned. Mother kicked the duvet off. I was cold. The telephone rang. It was Pompous Twit again.
He had a cheek trying again to reverse the charges. Ignorant twit. I ignored his call. Can’t remember a word he said. Maybe he was apologising.
12.35 pm. Mother picked up another parking ticket. She made it very plain to the video-cam on head, parking warden, that if she didn’t reverse her decision, cancel the ticket, and apologise verbally in coherent English, mother would call her solicitor. The fat warden wasn’t impressed. Asked mother, ‘who’s your solicitor?’ That called mother’s bluff. She didn’t know any solicitors and neither did I.
At this vital point in the proceedings, I knew we had lost the case and I convinced mother to retreat.
Evening. My swimming pool has turned into the high seas. Wave after amniotic wave crashed over me. Mother is angry. She must find £30 to pay the parking fine, and is acting intolerably. She has no idea that physical emotion affects the womb and the unborn.
Week Twenty-One
By the end of the week, I will have reached approximately 26.5 cm in length, weighing nearly 395 grams. I will start gaining weight in the form of fat, keeping me warm for the rest of my board and lodgings.
My swallowing will also improve as I drink more amniotic fluid, allowing the body to absorb water.
Sunday 4th January.
Dara is looking truly awesome. She’s mixed a stunning, lethal brew of make-up guaranteed to cause pile-ups in the streets.
Some weirdo called Richard Branson, with a weird beard, wants to take tourists into space. What weirdo would think up something that crazy? ‘Doomed to fail,’ uncle says, and for once, I agree. But if I do decide to visit space, my exclusive shopping list for this crazy conceived journey into space would be:
Parachute
Flying jacket with furry collar
Lunchbox packed with hot-toasted marshmallows
Binoculars (extra powerful) so I can see and wave to Dara down below.
Toothbrush and flannel in the unlikely case of mother causing trouble then being refused a return ticket home.
Return ticket (most important).
Two pullovers in the likely case it gets cold up there.
Pencil and rubber to draw whatever I see outside starboard window. I think I’m becoming a kinda right-sided guy.
Paper to draw on.
Geometry gadgets in the very unlikely instance that the pilot has his angles wrong and asks
for my help.
Calculator to decide how much to charge pilot for my assistance.
Training shoes for a quick getaway in the unlikely case of a crash landing.
Earplugs to drown out mother’s screaming. Very likely.
I’ve stopped at thirteen because this is my lucky number. When I’m thirteen years old, I’m going to give this Richard Branson a call. I want to become one of his pilots. By then, I expect the starting age for pilots will be about thirteen. If not I will sue regarding my human rights being abused. Everyone does that kind of thing these days.
Dara says I look very alive and cool in my new uniform of fat. I paid her the same compliment. Why is she giving me a cold stare?
I’ve asked her out to dinner tonight. She says she’ll think about it. Quicker than it takes a woman to change into another dress, Dara accepts my proposal.
Early Evening. Wow. ‘Wow,’ I said to Dara. ‘Wow,’ she said to me. ‘You look so grown up.’ ‘Yes, I guess I do,’ I said.
There was a long pause in the conversation. Mystified me at first, until a passing, unborn male, (older than me) brushed past me.
‘Pssst,’ he said. ‘She’s waiting for her compliment.’
He was dead right, so I spent the rest of the evening chatting and arguing with Dara about whose amniotic fluid tasted the best.
It was a brill and very enjoyable evening with my first love, chattering until our teeth chattered to a standstill.
Dara hates horseradish sauce, unlike me, so we (our mothers) swapped plates. If the waiter was on the ball, he’d have made sure the sauce was lapping the sides of our plates and not dolloped thickly onto the food. Terrible training.
Just about to complain to the headwaiter but Dara thought I shouldn’t, so I didn’t. Guess she knows best, her being older, female, and all that.
We danced the night away into the very small hours until our tootsies became very sore. I think a few of the other unborns were a little jealous at the way Dara and me danced the tango.
Monday 5th January.
Shopping in town. Mother received a call on her mobile. It was Uncle. Sounded a little emotional. Appears Tallulah had an accident and might be dead. Might be? Either she is or she isn’t. I had my fingers crossed. Wish he’d make up his bloody mind. Wonder if Uncle is tasting the first fruits of senility?
Mother rushed home. I followed, bouncing off the walls of my cell. Lying stretched out, and on our best chair, was Tallulah. Looked lifeless. I felt a smile creep across my face. However, her sneezing meant she couldn’t be dead. Wonder if that cat has ever thought of taking up Shakespearian acting?
Uncle looked dead guilty and tried to make his escape, but hadn’t relied on the unreliability of a cat’s mind.
The cat dashed, and Uncle fell, mother clipping his ear just like parents do to a naughty child. Uncle shouted, ‘Bloody cat.’
Tuesday 6th January.
Dara thinks I’m looking fat. I would compliment her on her fatness if it weren’t such a sensitive subject. But she does look bloody gorgeous.
Decided to take mother shopping. Likes Italian pastries; like cannoli and chocolate cassata, anything that is sticky and gooey and anything that sounds remotely Italian.
Visited mother’s local ‘health’ shop, but McDonalds were closed. Something to do with a clean-up operation.
Mother decided trying a new out-of-town shopping store. Persuaded her to buy a six-pack, low calorie yoghurt, swimming with ‘good’ bacteria. Mother chose something exotic from Thailand in the meat department. A plump, spicy chicken. I chose Brazil nuts from Brazil and escargots from France (I think they’re snails). Mother turned up her nose at the snails, but I didn’t, and that’s what counts. I did eventually let mother choose her favourite Vodka.
Wednesday 7th January.
Dara again thinks my extra fat looks real hot. Blubber called round and remarked how great I was looking with my new fat.
Thursday 8th January.
Ignorant Twit (aka Pompous Twit) landed at Heathrow today, back from his holiday in Hong Kong.
Friday 9th January.
Pompous Twit isn’t such an ignorant twit after all. He’s had this bright idea of inviting Blubber and me (parents also invited) on holiday. Pompous says he still has the holiday bug inside him. I told him to see a doctor. It might get worse. We were to fly next Wednesday morning. Pompous’s mother had a little business to take care of in AUSTRALIA. Never been there, but Kangaroos, here I come.
Saturday 10th January.
Slept all day to conserve energy for next week’s tiring flight.
Week Twenty-Two
By the end of week 22, I’ll be approximately 28cm long and weigh somewhere around 460grams. My eyebrows and eyelids are now 100% complete and rapid eye movements have begun. Fingernails have grown and will cover the fingertips. My hearing will be acute, so acute; I’m seriously thinking about having earmuffs to drown out the sounds of mother’s churning stomach.
Sunday 11th January.
Mother slept most of the day, so I counted my fingers and played eye-spy with myself.
Monday 12th January.
Uncle chased mother around the lounge, both blind drunk. Decided to count my fingers and toes whilst this was going on, but gets boring after a while.
Tuesday 13th January.
A blur. I had one too many Vodkas again.
Wednesday 14th January.
I’m cruising through the blue yonder at who knows how many thousands of feet high, and my ears have just popped.
Good news. Customs at Heathrow didn’t notice mother’s double-hip flasks. Obviously not doing their jobs properly. My mentally unhinged (sometimes) mother could have been carrying Semtex. If it had been a biological bomb, the passengers might have transformed into zombies like you see in the horror movies. Instead, mother brought onboard the best Plymouth gin money could buy.
We are sitting in the middle seat to the rear of the Jumbo Jet. To my left, next to the window, is Pompous Twit and to my right, Blubber.
Pompous arrived at the airport wearing a Stetson, and Blubber a Sombrero, or was it my imagination through the vodka haze I was experiencing.
Blubber is crying. His ears didn’t pop like ours. I think he feels left out. Twit is being pompous as usual, especially with the stewardess. She accidentally poured him an Espresso and not a Cappuccino as ordered.
Mother thought the likelihood of a hijacker concealing himself somewhere on board was reasonable. She was overtly nervous, so nervous in fact; she suspected everyone and anyone, excluding me. Mother is probably right though. You never know who’s got terrorist tendencies nowadays.
Finally, a little peace. Blubber has stopped his incessant crying. But no sooner had he dried his eyes, a flirtatious unborn six rows up, began fluttering her eyelashes at him. Off he went again, blub, blub, blub. So insecure for his age.
Half an hour into the flight and mother is still wearing her seatbelt. Does she realise the ‘fasten your seatbelt’ sign was switched off 20 minutes ago? Had it registered there were passengers walking up and down the aisles?
Mother stretched her seatbelt even tighter. I fainted. Too much pressure in my womb-cabin. Not air pressure, but pressure from the amniotic fluid. I couldn’t stop hyperventilating on fluid. Eventually, mother did loosen the seatbelt and I slowly came around.
A stewardess rolled the food and drink trolley down the aisle. The chocolate cream cake looked yummy. I was craving for a slice but mother, as usual, only had eyes for her hip flask. Pompous Twit and Blubber on the other hand had their cake and ate it. Why can’t my mother just be normal for once? Too nervous and too bloody sloshed, that’s why.
Jade, the pretty and young stewardess started screaming at a passenger. Didn’t know stewardesses had the authority to scream four-letter swear words whilst on duty.
Another stewardess, Molly, smiled directly at me and asked my mother, ‘How long to go now?’ Mother laughed. ‘As long as
it takes, dear. It’s a boy, you know.’
Strange how Molly knew mother was pregnant. A woman thing maybe or does mother have a flashing neon sign stamped on her forehead saying, ‘baby cooking in oven?’
Mother whispered into Molly’s ear. After a couple of minutes, the stewardess returned from the cockpit and nodded in our direction. What was mother doing walking towards the cabin?
‘The captain says yes. The co-pilot says no, but the flight engineer held the winning vote,’ said Molly.
The flight crew was in the middle of role-playing in the cabin where the flight engineer was captain for the day.
This was embarrassing. Passengers shouldn’t be allowed onto flight decks of highly sophisticated flying machines. Anything could happen. Mother could be a terrorist.
Most of the passengers understandably looked terrified. What if mother pulled a gun, or in her case, a nail file? What if, what if…
And so it happened …
‘What does this little red button do?’ mother asked. Because her thinking brain is always five seconds behind her actions, the naughty finger next to her thumb jabbed at the button. It suddenly flashed bright red followed by a piercing alarm throughout the plane.
I guess we dived to at least 20,000 ft before Captain John Dare decided Flight Engineer Roger Raffles had had sufficient fun playing captain for the day. Somehow, Captain Dare bravely brought the plane and its shocked passengers back under control.
The Captain insisted mother be thrown off the plane immediately. The Co-Pilot thought he had a better option; tie her up first, then throw her out. The air stewardesses scream of, ‘Oh, not again,’ I thought said it all. The entire crew must be experienced nose-divers!
The Absurd Secret Diary Of An Unborn Baby Page 8