The Absurd Secret Diary Of An Unborn Baby

  Wednesday 17th December.

  Last night I observed Pompous Twit’s mother undertaking a spot of late night shopping at our local grocery store. I shopped for oranges whilst mother shopped for celery.

  Pompous had been asleep. His mother looked extremely flustered, but I guess that’s because she upset a basket of apples and oranges all over the floor. A small yappy, pug-faced dog chased the fruit, sinking its snappy teeth into the oranges.

  Pompous has just returned from a holiday to Lapland. I noticed he hadn’t a tan. He says ‘you can’t get a tan in Lapland.’ Pompous mumbled something about ‘that’s where he lives.’ Who? Father Christmas and his toy factory, surrounded by his little people dressed in red. ‘I should have celebrated Christmas there,’ he said.

  Mother assured me that no big, fat bloke dressed in red, would ever squeeze down our chimney. Why? Because she says, ‘he doesn’t exist.’

  Pompous was kicked out of Lapland and warned never to return. His mother had ‘downed’ a great deal of the local brew, and after visiting Father Christmas in his forest bolt-hole, propositioned him before discovering he was the local mayor. Pompous was thrown into a police cell. In the morning, he was booted out of the country and his mother warned never to set foot in their fair country again.

  Thursday 18th December.

  A big red spot has come up at the end of my nose. It’s my first.

  Dempsey thinks he needs a new tail. If, in his dozy head, he thinks mother is going to pay for the cosmetic surgery, think again loser.

  Why are Tallulah and Dempsey staring at me? Must be the red spot on the tip of my nose. Must be getting bigger. I blame mother. She eats all the wrong foods.

  Friday 19th December.

  Mother has decided Dempsey requires the expert skills of a surgeon to renew his tail. No doubt, it’ll make Tallulah jealous, in which case, Dempsey might also require a set of new ears.

  Evening. Mother shouted, ‘I’ve won, I’ve won.’

  These are the screams of a manic mad woman. Checked Wednesday’s lottery results. Actually believes she’s won, but hasn’t. I should know, I’ve already checked the numbers. I didn’t only look at the ‘winning’ numbers, but more importantly, checked the date of those ‘winning’ numbers. The ticket was for last Saturday.

  So, do you understand my dilemma? Do I put up with a mother who probably loves me, but possesses no working knowledge of bringing-up an unborn?

  Maybe I’ll put in for adoption and try my luck with another mother.

  Saturday 20th December. Morning. 9.36am.

  Mother has informed her friends that she’s won a million. Probably all choked on their breakfast cereals. Mother ordered flowers for every room in the house (not including mine) followed by a holiday booking.

  Seriously wondered if the ordering of a red Ferrari sports car, that exceeds 200 mph, was just a tiny bit over the top. But I guess anyone who believes they have won the lottery will naturally lose their heads.

  Mother’s howler was ordering champagne and the finest caviar money (credit card) can buy. I’ve tasted the champers before. The pink stuff. Makes me burp.

  By 1.30pm, I had fainted. By 2.00pm, I was in a deep (probably non-reversible) coma. By 2.34pm I was rushed into our local hospital’s emergency department (luckily for me, the NHS cuts hadn‘t ‘cut’ in yet), but it did prove mother still thinks I’m worth waiting for.

  By 4.45pm, I was given the all clear. By 6.07pm, mother was seriously depressed. Had double-checked her lottery numbers.

  So-called ‘friends’ were threatening to disown her (I often do). Two of her so called friends even threatened legal action, but probably don’t have a leg to stand on.

  It’s hard to imagine I know, but I feel (probably misplaced) a sense of protectiveness towards mother and unbelievably, there’s an upside to all this mess. She won a tenner. Probably buy a bottle of something intoxicating.

  By 10.32 in the evening, I still hadn’t eaten but did accept a call from Dara. Told her the bad news in relation to the lottery, but like all good girlfriends, she understood. Says she still cares for me, even if I am still jogging slowly along in the poor lane. That’s comforting dear.

  Finally, great news. Uncle Billy will not be joining us for the family Christmas. He’ll be attending the annual, racing pigeon conference in London.

  Postscript.

  At the end of week eighteen, I’ve grown ‘into’ a body-armour of thick skin.

  Week Nineteen.

  By the end of this week I’ll have grown to about 22.25 cm in length and weigh approximately 275 grams, and once again, I feel like uncorking a bottle of bubbly and celebrating passing a milestone in my unborn life.

  At nineteen weeks, I have a digestive tract functioning better than ever, even with the scaffolding still erected.

  At nineteen weeks, I regularly get drunk on amniotic fluid. To some, it’s disgusting, but for the unborn, it’s our constant companion. Couldn’t survive without it.

  Sunday 21st December.

  Great news. The large, red spot on the end my nose has done a runner. Have been rubbing it relentlessly against the health giving properties of mother’s umbilical cord, and it appears to have done the trick. Now I can look Dara full in the face without being self-conscious of the spot that wouldn’t drop.

  A dark featured, heavy accented, foreigner stopped mother in the street. Said he was an ‘asylum seeker.’ Offered mother a cigarette. Thank god she refused. I could see his dirty hands. Dirty hands spread the plague, so Pompous Twit says.

  Striking faster than a cobra, he offered mother a full packet. I said ‘no thank you,’ but mother said ‘yes thank you.’ He soon revealed what lay hidden under his long, scruffy, dirty black coat.

  ‘Fifty packets of cigs,’ he said, with a wink, but I counted forty-nine, then remembered the open packet in his hand made fifty. He demanded fifty pounds. ‘Not a penny less,’ he said. Mother quite cleverly, I thought, brought him down to twenty pounds.

  ‘Don’t turn your back,’ I screamed. He was about to pull a knife. His dark, black, greedy eyes didn’t look so welcoming now.

  I shouldn’t have been anxious of course; don’t forget, mother is an experienced hero, and once again, proved it. He’ll experience hospital food before being shipped back beyond our beautiful shores. Just think of the stories he’ll recall for his folks back home.

  Monday 22nd December.

  Went to Tescos. Shopped for booze and cigarettes.

  Afternoon. 14.22 pm. A masked man wearing a one-eye balaclava, grabbed mother’s arm, before trying to steal her purse. Thought he was a little too aggressive, but he probably knew his job.

  Our kidnapper dragged us into the car park. I insisted she let go of the purse, after all, one shouldn’t have to suffer grievous bodily harm, or even die, just for the contents of a near empty purse.

  Kidnapper with no name was dreadfull. He roughly pulled mother by her hair along the car park. A good size crowd had gathered. Must have thought it worth watching as a spectacle.

  Two tramps (drunk) with bottles in hand, gave a decent chase in their own sweet way, no doubt wanting to do their bit for queen and country, but ended up colliding into one another. Their quest failed dismally.

  Afternoon. 14.28 pm. Blue, flashing police car skidded into car park. Screeching brakes burning rubber. Kidnapper panics and scampers. Police give reasonable chase on foot. Screams come from the bushes. Thought about giving chase but mother was suffering from a severely sore head and was having none of it. The police thought mother very brave and patted her deservedly on the head.

  Early Evening. 18.40 pm. Mother celebrated her bravery down at Reg’s Chippy Cafe. I scoffed at his high prices, but mother decided money was no problem.

  We stuffed our faces until we resembled gerbils. Mother fancied a piece of Haddock, but I’d set my mind on expensive, but globally threatened Cod, with double carton of chips and a sachet of soy sauce. Al
so ordered cartons of mushy peas, gherkins, fried onions, and a smile from the girl serving us behind the counter would have been nice, but settled for a smirk instead.

  Evening. 8.54pm. Arrived home just as rain began to fall. Mother ate my fish portion, but what she eats, I eventually acquire.

  An envelope was waiting on the doormat when we arrived home. I recognised the hand-writing at once. It was from Uncle Billy. What did he want?

  I’d been waiting a long time to celebrate my first Christmas. To decorate the Christmas tree, buy presents, cook the turkey, listen to the queen’s speech from her underground bunker, get disgustingly legless and taste the Xmas Pud. Not all unborns get the opportunity to celebrate Christmas like me. Any unborn conceived in January, February, or even March, will miss the great day.

  I don’t think Uncle Billy will fit into our household. He’s too used to milking cows and mucking out the stables and feeding the chickens on Christmas day. What would Dara make of him? Probably take one sniff and decide Uncle Billy is not her cup of tea. Come to think of it, she might decide never talk to me again.

  Tuesday 23rd December.

  Awoke with cartloads of energy this morning. Completed two laps in my swimming pool then precariously balanced along my umbilical before completing a series of stretching exercises.

  Went roller-skating for the very first time until mother fell down, bruising her ankle.

  Uncle Billy arrived early by taxi. Driver struggled with cases. Two minutes later, second taxi arrived. More luggage unloaded. Waited for a third taxi with cow and goats.

  Uncle Billy looks older. Has thin face. Reminds me of a death mask. I don’t think he looks that well. Wonder if mother knows what she’s letting herself in for. Uncle patted my head (I was resting my head against the womb wall) as he hobbled past. I hate all that patting stuff, but I guess its in-fashion nowadays. Memo to myself. Remember to keep head well away from womb wall when Uncle Billy is passing.

  Early Afternoon. Pompous Twit telephoned. Wants a favour. Asked if I could be his bodyguard? Appears he’s been receiving threatening letters from New Kid.

  Pompous says I can start ‘body-guarding’ him as soon as he returns from holiday in two weeks’ time. The arrogance of the boy. I have not even said yes yet.

  Pompous will be leaving Southampton tomorrow on an exotic cruise around the Mediterranean where passengers eat and drink as much as they like. I would love to cruise the Med. An excuse to ‘down’ the food and vitamins I require.

  Sat down and watched a disaster movie entitled, ‘Sinking of the Neptune.’ Pompous also wanted to watch it. The film is about a cruise-liner being hit by a large Tsunami wave. Ship sinks and everyone drowns, except for the star actors. Paid far too much to drown.

  Pompous calls me (tries reversing charges). Says he is not feeling that well. Film looked so real, he said. I told him it was only acting. ‘Didn’t look very much like acting,’ he complained. I told him they’re just good at their job, that’s why it looks so real.

  Late Afternoon. Discovered the film was a documentary after all.

  Early Evening. Uncle Billy has been making strange noises all day. He blames mother’s food. I think it’s the beans mother is feeding him. Mother loves beans. I think some serious ground rules need to be applied if Uncle Billy intends living with us. He doesn’t live on a farm now.

  Mother insists uncle washes his feet everyday (he suffers from fungal feet) and takes at least two baths a week. At this point in the proceedings, uncle suffered an unexpected coughing fit. He says he’s never had more than one bath a month, at most. I guess uncle and dirt are bed pals. In winter, on a farm, when it’s deathly cold, ‘a bath every four weeks is the norm,’ he says.

  Uncle Billy has once again unwrapped the glittery necklace from his trouser pocket and fastened it around mother’s neck. What’s it doing in his pocket? Funny place to keep a necklace. Probably reminding mother what she can lose if she forgets to look after him.

  Wednesday 24th December. Morning.

  Only one shopping day left until Christmas and mother is still scurrying about doing the shopping. She’s seriously stressing me.

  Uncle Billy thought he would visit Ramshackle Farm.

  Brought back five Cornish chickens. What will our neighbours think? The backyard wasn’t meant to house chickens. If the police hear about it, uncle could get done.

  Uncle Billy tried to persuade mother that having a milking cow in the backyard would be useful, and uncle even says he’s saved enough money to buy the entire orchard behind our house which is for sale. Thankfully, mother didn’t fall for all that codswallop.

  Hmm…maybe the idea isn’t such a bad idea after all. I could gently persuade mother to climb a tree and pick the apples, thus giving me the necessary daily intake of C vitamins I need.

  Uncle Billy has disgraced himself. He’s only broken into the Christmas cake mother created yesterday. How could he?

  Thursday 25th December. CHRISTMAS DAY.

  Today we had visitors. Not Father Christmas, but the burglars...THEY WEREN’T EVEN INVITED! At least there were no presents to steal.

  10.02am. Telephone rang. It was the Old Bill on the phone. They had ‘caught the bastards,’ they said. Their words not mine. Now I can enjoy Christmas lunch safe in the knowledge that the naughty ‘scaly wags’ are snuggled up safe in the local police cell.

  Uncle Billy thinks he’s the only comedian in the house. Thought it right to remind him that standing on his head looked ridiculous for an old man and could be dead dangerous, but old codgers like him rarely listen. He probably still thinks he’s twelve years old.

  Watched as the bottom of his trouser legs fell back, exposing his wrinkled knees. He thought it was a hoot. Uncle Billy has very hairy, knobby knees. No wonder he never married.

  Uncle Billy is now lying on the sofa, exhausted after his party trick. Says he always performs this trick in front of the farmyard animals at this time of year.

  Blood went to his head. Mother asked how he felt. ‘Giddy. I feel like death,’ he said. She showed no sympathy.

  Maybe I should call his bluff, ring the local coroner, and make an appointment. Within two minutes of downing a malt whisky, he’d fully recovered and continued to act the twelve year old.

  Late Afternoon. Uncle Billy said he enjoyed the first half of the Queen’s Speech, but I had no idea what he thought of the second half because he fell asleep. I thought it dead boring until the corgis ran off with a tiara and the queen chased them around the table. She’s a natural comic.

  Late, Very Late Afternoon. Tallulah was full of Christmas spirit, doing a death defying balancing act on the edge of the dining-room table. She was dead drunk. Uncle Billy had laced her milk with mother’s bottle of Southern Comfort liquor. Uncle thought it sidesplitting funny, especially as no one had witnessed the dirty deed, or so he thought. If only the cat knew, she would be furious.

  Early Evening. I’m sure Tallulah is dead. Everyone is too fat and too full to care if she’s dead or alive.

  Mid-Evening. Cat is not dead. Couldn’t be. She’s just coughed up a thick soup of sick all over Uncle Billy’s Christmas shirt. Uncle is dead furious with Tallulah, but at least she isn’t dead. Uncle Billy has promised not to shoot her, just yet.

  Oh great. Think I’m experiencing the kicking-in of a life threatening stomach bug. Mother must have eaten something dodgy. I thought the turkey-stuffing that uncle made, tasted off.

  Late Evening. Persuaded mother to stir a teaspoon of powdered ginger into a glass, add warm water, and hey presto, bug capitulated.

  Friday 26th December. BOXING DAY. 10.54 a.m. and Counting.

  Uncle Billy forgot to lock the toilet door, as usual. Mum was furious. Uncle looked very guilty, returning to his room with his tail between his legs. Mother says, ‘locks are for locking doors.’ She is dead right.

  Uncle apologised and insists it will never happen again. He always says that.

  I’
m trying to finish a crossword puzzle. Four down. What sound does a lion make? Four letters. Apparently, it starts with an R, two blanks, and ends with an R. That’s easy. R, double A, R = ‘Raar’. Mother has already inked in ‘Roar.’ That’s stupid. Who’s ever heard a lion going, ‘Roar?’ It goes, ‘Raar.’

  12.00 exactly. Off to the beach this afternoon. Not to swim or sunbathe, but to play the gaming machines on the pier. I’ve never played a gaming machine before.

  Two lunch boxes are packed. Boiled eggs, slices of salmon, slices of turkey, slices of beef and slices of cheese. Uncle Billy insisted on packing his own. He’s in a strange mood today. Thinks mother might be trying to poison him. Wish she would. He even accused her of being more attracted to his jewelry than his future welfare. Strange thinking.

  Jump-started the car. This is the sad result of mother never cleaning the engine. Once again, nearly ran over an old lady. We sped through two sets of red lights. A sleeping policeman decided to wake up. Chased us for half a mile down Saint Lucifer Street. Lucifer soon caught up with us. Another speeding ticket.

  1.35pm. Arrived at the seaside. Parked car, but reversed over a sleeping policeman. Thankfully, this one was plastic. The best kind.

  Uncle Billy thinks all police officers should be seen and not heard. Mother thinks police officers should be invisible and definitely not heard. I think they could, and do have their uses.

  Surprise, surprise. Dara was on the beach having a barbeque. Why didn’t she invite me? She got mother to kick a ball. I know it was meant for me. Nearly knocked me unconscious. Dara apologised. I said, ‘that’s ok.’

  Uncle Billy was thrown out of the one-arm bandit zone. Tried using his old redundant French coins instead of British.