The Absurd Secret Diary Of An Unborn Baby

by David N Bending

  Flight Engineer Raffles eventually demonstrated the most compassion. He offered mother a parachute, and then remembered he wasn’t captain anymore. More importantly (I thought), passenger planes don’t carry parachutes.

  Pompous Twit decided he wasn’t talking to me for the rest of the flight, preferring to observe (that’s a first) the tops of mountains. They didn’t look so far below as they did. Blubber was shaking. Too traumatised to blub most probably.

  Eventually it was agreed by all onboard, mother could stay in her seat as long as she didn’t twitch a muscle, blink an eye or point her nail file in the direction of the cockpit for the remainder of the flight.

  Australian police escorted us off the plane as soon as we touched down in sunny Oz. Excellent start to our holiday we all agreed.

  Thursday 15th January.

  Australian police interrogated us for over three hours, before deciding not to press charges (mother too hot to handle I expect) with attempted hijacking of a plane and endangering life whilst under the influence of drink.

  Friday 16th January.

  Hotel Royal Regina is the pits, but much preferred than the dirty dive of an Aussie police cell.

  Saturday 17th January.

  Mother is desperately trying to discover what the local brew is.

  Week Twenty-three

  By the end of week 23, I will have stretched to 29cm and weigh approx 540grams. Proportions are that of a newborn baby, but a little thinner. Skin wrinkly because I still require more fat. Eyes fully developed but lacking pigment in iris. Tooth buds visible beneath the gums. Lips looking pucker.

  Sunday 18th January.

  Hotel overlooks a swamp. Must be millions of deadly swamp thingies coughing and crawling in there.

  Monday 19th January.

  Blubber’s mother fell into a swamp. Nearly eaten by a large thingy before being bravely saved by Pompous Twit’s mother. Pompous was not amused and now has swamp thingies in his pool. He stuck his nose up in disgust and is refusing to speak to his mother. We all know what Blubber did.

  Tuesday 20th January.

  Blank.

  Wednesday 21st January.

  Blank.

  Thursday 22nd January.

  Blank.

  Friday 23rd January.

  The last few days we’ve all suffered from the Aussie Runs, and I do not mean cricket. Arranged a night out on the tiles. I deserve it. I’m taking Pompous, Blubber and his new friend Sheila the Aussie, whom Blubber met earlier by the swimming pool.

  12.06 pm. Have abandoned my night out idea because our parents have arranged a night out sleeping under the stars. Southern stars are brighter than British stars back home. Must be the cleaner air.

  So far, hippity-hoppity Kangaroos, slithering poisonous snakes and creepy, crawly spiders, have nearly killed us, but failed. Try harder, losers!

  Late evening. Couldn’t help laughing when a Common Brown snake did try harder and succeeded. It bit mum on the bum. Both of us deadly intoxicated, and laughed as we watched the red, or was it purple, swelling spread outwards. Suddenly, I remembered … this could affect me.

  Mother couldn’t see the funny side next day when, in the local, rural hospital, a newly recruited English nurse, jabbed a large, pointy needle into mother’s bottom to administer the anti-venom. Nurse Patterson said (smiling), there were roughly three thousand snakebites per year in Australia and only one or two ever prove fatal. In fact, it’s uncommon to die within four hours of a bite. Well, that’s all right then. We only took three hours and twenty minutes to reach the hospital because of a local demonstration against the slaughter of snakes for Japanese restaurants.

  Saturday 24th January. Early morning.

  Survived the snakebite. Emma, an 18 yr old trainee nurse from Darwin, said survival rates were usually poor unless treated straight away but she thought it will probably be our lucky day and we should survive, but then winked. The snake venom just couldn’t compete with mother’s deadly daily intake of Plymouth Gin. Here’s to drink. Cheers.

  Week Twenty-Four

  Slow growth but will reach 30cm this week and weigh 650 grams approx. Hearing is vibrant. Blood vessels are developing in the lungs nicely thank you, and will enable me to breathe air after birth. The intestines may accumulate meconium, a waste product that will not excrete until after birth. We’ll just have to wait and see.

  Sunday 25th January.

  Blubber teamed up with his new Australian friend Sheila most days. They’ve already done snorkeling, Aussie tennis (that’s a couple of competitive strokes higher than British tennis), paragliding, tatsooing (dancing) and drinking each other under the table. Being out here in Australia with blue skies, crystal clear water and a relaxed attitude to life, Blubber has finally shed his insecurities. Says he feels like a reborn unborn, and nothing will stand in his way from now on.

  Monday 26th January.

  Mother finally kicked out of hospital. I’m feeling weak but given the all-clear to fly home.

  Tuesday 27th January.

  Landed back tired under the grey skies of Heathrow airport. Blubber cried as the Cuban, cigar puffing, hijacker warned everyone not to make any sudden moves. Why do hijackers persist in boring passengers with idle threats, boasting that their pockets hold strips of Semtex? Except, this one did.

  The ‘highest quality,’ so he says. Only to be bought at Zuzana’s Coffee shop in the centre of Prague, second shelf down behind the bar, under a dusty old coffee tin. Sold at reasonable prices. ‘A bargain,’ he says and taking orders now. Think I could definitely do with a strip. ‘I’ll take two, no, second thoughts, make that three’, after all, it was Dara’s birthday soon, and uncle deserves to go out with a ‘bang.’

  Hijacker eventually overpowered and knocked on the head before I received the order I placed with him. No doubt, he’ll probably sue for millions and demand housing benefits and child support after he’s filed for asylum.

  I will never go on holiday with mother again. NEVER!

  Wednesday 28th January.

  Dempsey slept in our bed. Mother scratched all night, and by mid-morning realised why. Fleas. Thoughtful homecoming gesture, Dempsey.

  Early Afternoon. Dara called around and welcomed me home. She blew a kiss and insisted we holiday together next time. We’re in love.

  Late Afternoon. Had a doze, and then woke from a nightmare. I nightmared (if there’s such a word), that my umbilical cord had a personality disorder, intent on strangulation, and choking the last drops of amniotic fluid from my lungs. In my waking hours, the umbilical is as sweet as pie.

  Thursday 29th January.

  New Kid waved the white hanky in surrender. Said he was in the mood for a truce. Should I accept, after all, they do (I think) say everyone deserves a second chance, even for an unborn.

  Went fishing down by the local pond and sat in a circle around mother’s old camping stove. We ate bangers and mash out of old tin cups. ‘Didn’t know you liked fishing,’ mother said. ‘No, neither did I.’ said New Kid’s mother.

  We all experienced a wonderful afternoon, flicking our rods and hooks, lines and sinkers into the pond. New Kid thought I would catch the largest fish but I insisted he probably would. Eventually we measured both our catches, and he was dead right, mine was the biggest. We gurgled and laughed all afternoon before throwing the shoes we had hooked back in.

  Friday 30th January.

  Blubber turned up early this morning. Says he has fallen madly and deeply in love with Dara. I told him not to be so silly and get a grip of himself. Told him to think about others. He could hurt someone with such loose talk. ‘Like whom?’ he whispered. ‘Like me,’ I yelled at him. ‘Oh’ he said. Dara is my true love, I reminded him.

  Think I’ve really caught mother’s flu. At first, I thought it was a dry, sore throat. But sneezing is a dead giveaway. Now I’m talking through my nose and sounding like a Dalek.

  Mother doesn’t half swear these d
ays. Really embarrassing. Uncle swears like a trooper but you expect it from someone that old, but ‘you don’t expect that kind of language from a woman,’ so said our Prime Minister on a TV talk show yesterday. Wonder if Dara swears? I couldn’t marry a swearing woman no matter how pretty or wealthy she was.

  Saturday 31st January.

  Didn’t get out of bed until two minutes past two this afternoon. I’m suffering from the sneezes and wheezes. Dara insists she doesn’t mind if I have sneezes and wheezes. Says she would love me whatever I caught. That is what I call true love.

  New Kid appears to be a changed character. Was very sociable and polite on the telephone. Should I trust him? Common sense shouts no.

  A very odd-looking, Scottish family have moved in next door. Turned up in a battered, old white van with loud, belching exhaust. Their furniture looked just as battered. I felt embarrassed and sorry for them, but as soon as they opened their mouths, I didn’t.

  Week Twenty-Five

  I will reach 31cm this week and weigh 750 grams. Brain growing and developing quickly. Lungs producing a substance called surfactant. Will prevent the air sacs in my lungs from collapsing.

  Sunday 1st February.

  9.32 am. My lungs feel bloated. Full of a gooey substance that’s making me nauseous. Feels as if I want to be sick but can’t. Maybe I have cancer from mother’s smoking.

  If I could crawl back into bed I would, but mother is jumping up and down like a lunatic with a touch of the ‘raving’ included. The doctor has appealed to her ‘sensitive’ and ‘understanding’ side, requesting her to carry out light exercises every day. This would undoubtedly ‘create a healthier baby and also establish a meaningful bond between yourself and your unborn child,’ he said, and ‘intuitively bring out your love and tenderness.’ What a load of old folks blarney. Offer mother tea-total days and she’ll soon be back climbing up the neck of the drink bottle again. This woman will be the death of me.

  New Kid telephoned. Asked to be godfather to my first-born child. ‘I’m not even born yet,’ I said. What’s his game?

  9.42 am. New Kid telephoned again on his new state of the art mobile, and trying to reverse the charges. Said that his pay as you go credit had zeroed out. I insisted he tops it up and bloody quickly. He agreed. I accepted the call but wished I hadn’t.

  9.43 am. New Kid wants to be godfather to all my future offspring. I told him in plain simple English that his offer was just bloody greedy. I said I’d consider it. He said I was very generous to consider his plea of ‘playing god to my … ’ He quickly corrected himself, ‘….being godfather to every one of my future children would be a great honour.’

  9.59 am. About to inform New Kid I was having second thoughts about his daft idea when mother put the phone down.

  10.34 am and a few seconds. Completed ten morning press-ups. A record for me. Usually I manage six. Surely this is connected to my lungs getting stronger, bigger and not collapsing so often. Ten more press-ups couldn’t hurt. Better not though, could lose consciousness.

  Afternoon. Slept all afternoon.

  Monday 2nd February.

  Blubber wants to become a Buddhist. I don’t think he quite understands what a Buddhist must go through. Blubber says he sits crossed legged and prays. I’m sure he hasn’t the faintest idea what he’s got himself into.

  Tuesday 3rd February.

  Couldn’t sleep last night. Worried myself silly about being born without clothes. I didn’t want to freeze to death. Maybe a little woolly jumper and trousers will be waiting on the other side.

  Wednesday 4th February. 9. 34 am.

  Woken by an unhealthy loud noise. Somebody was thumping repeatedly on our front door.

  It was the Gasman. Shoved his official badge right up mother’s nose. Insisted he had to turn off our gas. I refused but mother asked how much was owed. The man, full-of-gas, insisted we should know the answer to that question. ‘£152.45p,’ he said. Mother gasped. I called his bluff. ‘Go on, cut us off.’ I’d rather freeze than starve to death.

  10.52 am and counting. My fingers are frozen. The gas central heating was disconnected and mother is lying on the sofa in a deep, drunken stupor, repeatedly playing her bloody Betty Blue song. She’s driving me insane and I can’t escape.

  10.59 am. It’s raining.

  11.05 am. Now it’s sleeting.

  11.07 am. Solid sheets of snow are falling. Looks beautiful. The postman slipped on the ice covering our pathway. Bet he has a sore ass.

  11.08 am. Children begin throwing snowballs at him.

  11.11 am. Children arrested by the local police after their patrol car, with blue flashing light, skidded out of control. Two of the constables received red noses caused by snowballs. A third PC decided to retreat into the home comforts of his vehicle, but he shouldn’t have parked on double yellow lines. A passing parking attendant could give him a ticket.

  4.05 am. Tallulah is at the vets with a dislocated jaw. She has no sense of proportion. Earlier, she thought it cool to squeeze through the cat flap with a fat, and obviously well fed, but dead mouse. Mouse ended up lodged between her jaws. Now the mouse is having the last laugh, albeit posthumously. No doubt, the vet will have trouble yanking it out with large, frightening (for Tallulah) forceps.

  Thursday 5th February. 10.45 am.

  Telephone rang. Tallulah, who is now home, albeit with sore jaw, but snoozing peacefully, jumped out of her skin with fright. Her nerves are frazzled.

  Dara’s mother is in deep conversation with mine about fashion and men. Blah, blah, blah.

  Dara says New Kid has returned to his old scheming ways. Has threatened Blubber and my friends with serious GBH. Why? Because New Kid on the Block is jealous. Thinks I’ve far too many friends. Well, he can forget about being godfather to my children, if I decide to have any.

  Friday 6th February. Late afternoon.

  Two minutes ago, mother came to a serious decision. Decided we are visiting my Aunt Nell in London. Mayfair to be precise. Aunt Nell is loaded.

  When mother rang her with the good news, I thought I heard aunt trying to suppress a scream, or was it a panic attack.

  Mother’s phone call only lasted thirty seconds, and then mysteriously, we were cut off. I blame B.T. As mum always says, ‘if in doubt, blame B.T.’

  Saturday 7th February.

  Phileas Fogg (one of our gang) has recently arrived back from the deepest regions of the Amazon. I have named him Phileas Fogg because he reminds me of the character in the book, Around the World in Eighty Days. In the book, Phileas broke the record for travelling around the world in 80 days, but our Phileas is eyeing another record. The fastest evacuation from the womb. Thinks two seconds should do it. He’s even acquired long, curly black hair to look the part.

  10.56 am. Mother has packed our bags. Tallulah and Dempsey have been left strict instructions not to bite, scratch or confuse Uncle Billy. Between you and me, they’ll not take a blind bit of notice.

  Mother is taking her personal stereo even though I refused. I could do without the earache. Still thinks Black Sabbath is a Rock On noise.

  Week Twenty-Six

  By the end of this week, I’ll be 32 cm long and weigh around 850 grams. I will not be breathing air but inhaling and exhaling amniotic fluid.

  Officially, I am supposed to respond to any form of touching and bright lights. This I have discovered would be an indication of my optic nerves working especially well.

  Sunday 8th February. 11. 06 am.

  Left for the railway station. Taxi driver, with earring and baseball cap, took a wrong turn. Mother shouted and warned him he seriously risked losing his substantial tip if we arrived late. Threats did the trick.

  11.25 am. Arrived 10 minutes early. Watched mother’s face as she giggled at the fifty pence tip she handed the taxi driver. He swore in Polish I think.

  11.39 am. Train leaves the station 4 minutes late. Never knew trains could be such fun.

&nb
sp; A small party of police officers sat opposite. Dead drunk. Laughed at the black moustache slowly slipping down the chin of one police officer.

  11.52 am. A bespectacled vicar sat beside us. What’s his filthy game? His hand has slipped onto mother’s knee.

  12.05 pm. About three quarters into our journey, with the vicar asleep, mother decided a call of nature was required. After, we escaped to the restaurant and bought a large, health conscious, beef burger and diet coke. By drinking diet coke, mother assumes it’ll be the anti-dote to noshing down a calorie-filled burger.

  12.16 pm. Returned to our carriage only to find a loutish, obviously drunk, yob lying sprawled out in our seat. The vicar now had another knee to baptise. We moved to another, less noisy carriage.

  12.21 pm. Had a doze, resting my head on the umbilical cord.

  12.27 pm. Arrived early at Paddington Station. Aunt Nell met us. Aunt Nell looks very old and short, very thin and wearing heaps too much red lipstick. Standing next to her, mother looks dead fat. Dead common really.

  12.39 pm. Paddington is crowded and it’s started to rain.

  12.43 am. Aunt Nell is definitely dotty. Threw herself in front of a black hackney cab. The speeding taxi had little choice but to slam on the brakes. The driver was ashen faced, as was my mother, as was my umbilical cord. I somehow (call it unborn instinct) guessed aunt’s motive.

  Shaun, our Irish driver, is furious and at first refused our custom. There was already a passenger in the back, but aunt insisted Shaun was wasting space carrying only one passenger.