Dara paid me a visit. I treated her to afternoon tea and high calorie, homemade chocolate fingers. Mother shared a bottle of vodka (that’s a first), but I hate watching Dara’s mother drinking so heavily. It could harm my first love.
By the time Mrs Doo got up from the chair to leave, Dara looked shaky on her feet, but still managed to blow me a kiss in between giggles before snuggling up and falling asleep.
Late afternoon. Mother and Grandma at each other’s throats. Grandma (ex-hippie, ex-Greenham Common protester, but still active pro-pot smoker) is persevering with the idea of mum and dad ignoring their ‘differences,’ and getting back together again. She seems oblivious that there’s another man in mother’s life, and another in dad’s.
Grandma has threatened to disinherit them both. Big deal. All she has left to bequeath is two china tea sets. One set is ‘Ming’ china, she says, but looks so old you probably couldn’t give it away. The other is ‘Delft,’ or something. All rubbish.
Wednesday 12th November.
Dara’s father is a right Jack the Lad and somewhat eccentric. Blubber says her dad was once caught smuggling cannabis through Heathrow Airport. Customs spotted a man wearing a Stetson that miraculously had a life all of its own. It started bobbing up and down. He was only questioned when the parrot foolishly pushed his head out from under the hat and started screeching, ‘Who wants a joint, who wants a joint, check the case, check the case?’
The holidaymakers thought it a gas, and even the in-bound, wriggling-line of Jamaicans and East Europeans waiting for passports to be stamped, understood the funny side.
Mr Doo was banged up for six months. Appears the parrot had been hooked on Skunk for years. Only recently has it shown any interest in group therapy sessions. Dara says that’s because a female, heroin hooked parrot, is attending.
Late Evening. Hot-off-the-press has kindly informed me I can select the day of my birth. If only mothers-to-be realised the raw power their unborn kids hold over them, they wouldn’t think twice about aborting us.
Thursday 13th November.
Tomorrow is my dad’s birthday. He’ll be thirty-six which is tragically ancient. Mother and I have organised a surprise. We’re shopping in his favourite store, ‘Twinkles.’ A gay store for men. The poster in the shop window says: ‘TWINKLES, the store for men. Give that special man in your life a good time treat at TWINKLES.’ Dad will be dead chuffed.
Friday 14th November. Mid-Afternoon.
Rumours are spreading like wild-fly across scores of womb communities, insisting that Dara is going out with New Kid on the Block. I would give Dara a tough grilling over her affair, but I’m having difficulty in persuading mother to pick up the telephone.
Dempsey has done-in Tallulah, and Tallulah has done-in Dempsey. Both are now sulking and feeling sorry for themselves, and licking their wounds. If only both would settle their differences.
My ‘proper’ and ’biological’ dad, Angus, has arrived. Mother and I sang happy birthday. Think I saw tears in his eyes. Anton is upstairs sulking.
Dad wore a very pretty (I told him so) and bright, pink shirt with no tie or vest, with the first four of his shirt top buttons undone. Showed off his 24-carat gold neck-chain a treat. Mother said he was the prettiest puff in town (whatever puff means), then celebrated with a birthday drink in the hallway. Grandma and Granddad rang, then sang happy birthday, but forgot the words halfway through.
No sign of Anton. Still sulking most probably. With my acute hearing, I heard murmurings coming from the bathroom.
There was something very odd about TWINKLES, the store. It is bright; it is sickeningly bright in pretty pink, and dad eyed up every man in sight. What is he like!
Mother invited dad to choose anything that took his fancy, but drew the line at a handsome, much tanned, and very fit young man. ‘There are limits,’ mother insisted.
After chatting up the salesman for half an hour, dad eventually settled on underwear that was very cheeky. Mother also insisted he buy his favourite, manly perfume, ‘MUSCLE.’ Now he’s a happy, cheeky-chap.
Dad hugged mother, followed by a quick kiss, a pat on my head (I was resting my head against the womb wall), and a wave goodbye.
Saturday 15th November.
Mother and Anton have made up, as did Dempsey and Tallulah. Peace finally reigns in our household.
My first love has come out in red spots. Could be measles. New Kid said they were too horrible to look. Thinks he and Dara should put their relationship on hold for a while.
He might consider them ugly spots, but to me, the five pinky spots, are quite cute really (and I told her so). I also emphasized how easy they were to count because of their size. I think my pearl of wisdom has put her mind at rest.
New Kid officially informed Dara today that their relationship was dead in the water (or womb). He carried out this ghastly action by informing Blubber, who informed Pompous Twit, who told Dara. If he really loved her, he wouldn’t distress her like that. However, I’m glad he’s off the scene.
Week Fourteen.
Have left week thirteen well behind in my exhaust trail. Accelerated past the 10.5 cm mark and have doubled my weight. Now I’m 40 grams and piling on the weight. I would shout ‘hallelujah,’ but I’m an atheist.
My fingerprints are now stamped firmly on each finger. I have gained a unique identity at last. Nerve cells are multiplying and synapses forming branch lines. There are no leaves on my lines.
Sunday 16th November.
Mother is taking me out for the day. Caught the tube from Bayswater to Notting Hill Gate. Visited her childhood house (now an A-list celebrity house). W pressed our noses up against the window.
Chased off by gruff, security guard who had nothing better to do, and warned us never to return. So embarrassing.
By the Black Lion Gate in Kensington Gardens, mother licked her mint-flavoured ice-cream as I watched the world whiz by. A tramp was rummaging through litterbins, so we insisted he finished-off our ice cream.
Monday 17th November.
My hearing has stabilised nicely. Now I’m the very proud owner of a beautiful pair of earflaps. As a rule, unborns of my age have acute hearing, so much so, I can now hear the kitchen mice underneath the floorboards scurrying about.
Oh yes, Tallulah caught a mouse today. Tried dragging it through the cat flap, but the bloody mouse was so well fed (probably from scraps mother leaves behind in the garden), it became stuck. At least Tallulah had the foresight to scrunch the mouse up in her mouth to make it smaller. The mouse was ceremoniously dragged along the kitchen floor before being presented to mother.
Mother scolded Tallulah. ‘You killed an innocent and defenseless creature belonging to god,’ mother said with eyes watering. She loves her little defenseless, furry animals, but to drag it along the kitchen floor was unhygienic. It could have had fleas. Didn’t the Black Death begin with fleas?
Tuesday 18th November.
Stargazed tonight, staring high up into the heavens. I made out the Milky Way, and imagined Dara and me flying amongst the stars. Picked out a particular star to put in Dara’s hair (if only she had some).
Wednesday 19th November.
A close friend has urged mother to attend Alcoholics Anonymous, but mother does not think much of the idea.
Thursday 20th November. Evening.
Pre-natal ‘getting to know your baby’ class tonight. I persuaded the circus twins Zilli and Zalli to entertain us with an evening of extravaganza. First up was Zilli. She’s seriously into rhythmic gymnastics and often gets top marks.
Zilli performed a wicked and wonderful tumbling routine. Jumped onto the umbilical cord, completing a fast, forward flip followed by a sideways, mid-air triple tumble routine.
She fell off and like Olga Korbut, tears rolled from her eyes. Zilli repeated the tumble again and again with triple radacan, straight leg twists. Imaginatively squeezed handfuls of amniotic fluid into a ball and tossed it.
So rhythmical, I thought I was being hypnotised.
Many of the mothers’ winced in pain as their unborns’ shrieked and clapped; an audience of unborns’, some with no arms or hands, legs or feet, one eye, one ear, no nose, half a brain, two brains (probably be aborted at some stage).
I held up a nine out of ten for Zilli’s spectacular performance. Several of the others only awarded her three out of ten (not all have ten fingers and thumbs yet).
Now it was Zalli’s turn. Decided on an ice-skating routine. Started with an easy double Lutz, before landing awkwardly on the large, frozen arena of amniotic fluid. Zalli soon picked herself up and completed a double salco with forward roll. A Bielman spin was followed by a double salco and triple toe loop. Finally, Zalli completes a triple salco with added double twist thrown in.
If flowers could have been thrown, they would have. The judges, who were fortunate to have a full set of finger and thumb digits, gave nines. If only Zalli had not fallen, I’m certain she’d have been awarded tens.
Friday 21st November.
Tallulah surprised us tonight. The cat-flap opened, and squeezed in her mouth was a small, tortoise-shell coloured, baby kitten. Probably not more than a week old. What on earth does Tallulah expect mother to do with it? Wean it? Bathe it? Give it a home? Mother already has one baby to look after. Me. And look what a great job she’s doing there.
I’ve decided cats love old people. Is it because they pose less of a threat? You should see my sad, basket case granddad. Sits in his garden shed all day, slurping back homemade wine, counting his horse winnings, ignoring the losses, watching TV on his dodgy portable, and having trained his cat to catch small birds before barbequing them. He insists they are ‘tasty and crunchy’ with oodles of protein.
Saturday 22nd November.
Would like to question Dara’s weight, but dare not ask, even if I am the boyfriend. Girls can be so touchy about weight issues, even if the question is asked innocently. Maybe I should ask Blubber, to ask Pompous Twit, to question Dara about her weight, but I expect Dara would either slap him or think him rude, which is okay.
Uncle Billy, on mother’s side of the family, has promised us a large, fancy food hamper for Xmas, and remember, what mother eats, I eat.
Week Fifteen.
It is official. I am authorised to suck my thumb this week. Unofficially, I have been sucking since week eight. By the end of week fifteen, my entire body will be covered in a fine, downy hair. Hair and eyebrows are growing very stylishly. Dara plaits her eyebrows. My girl is always reinventing herself.
Sunday 23rd November.
Dara says I’m becoming more handsome as the weeks pass. Think she could be right.
Mother forgot to buy the frisky-fried, chicken crisps I like. Don’t I get fed today, woman. Dempsey has a bowl, Tallulah has a bowl, and what do I get? Vodka on the rocks via the umbilical.
Late evening and tired. Out of the blue, Blubber decided to make a house call. Unfortunately, after a few heady drinks, he came to the decision that because Dara is such a popular girl, we should hold a party for her on Thursday. I agreed, so here is the party list:
1. Flowers (roses)
2. A Card (large and pink)
3. Biscuits (assorted)
4. Cake with Dara’s name squiggled on.
5. Guests (close friends only)
6. No pets or pests (Dempsey or Tallulah)
7. Jewellery (nothing cheap for my girl)
Monday 24th November.
New Kid left a message on the answer-phone. Says Dara wishes to meet me on the corner of Juke Box Street outside Café France at 3.45pm. ‘Very urgent,’ he said. What could be so urgent? Why couldn’t Dara pick up the phone herself and call me?
It’s raining heavily with a forecast of thunder and lightning. I’ll never persuade mother to venture outdoors in that.
A sudden and inspiring thought has crossed my mind. Mother is cooking a fruitcake without marzipan. I could persuade mother to smell the imaginary marzipan.
Success. Mother grabbed her black-hooded coat, red umbrella (hope it deflects lightening), and rushed out of the house. ‘Be quick,’ I yell.
Passed Café France on the way to the bakery. It makes mother’s favourite marzipan.
Together, we stared through the window of Café France.
Carlo, the café owner, ushered us in. He is mother’s ex-boyfriend. Instead of the welcome of two lost friends, I distinctly got the impression Carlo was thinking of his paying customers. Who can blame him? Customers don’t want to watch a seemingly mad woman, pressing her nose hard up against the café window.
3.45pm quickly came and went. Now it was 4.45pm and still no sign of Dara. What was her game?
Of course. My newly converging brain cells suddenly put two and two together. Dara never intended for us to meet at the Café France in the first place. That dirty scoundrel, New Kid, had set me up.
Late Evening. Mother is drunk and playing electronic music by an Icelandic singer, Hafdis Huld. She’s doing my head in.
Tuesday 25th November. Morning. 10.26.
Discovered New Kid played an identical trick on Dara the day before, and an hour before leaving me an identical message on the answer-phone.
Whilst hanging about for me in the street, New Kid passed her by and even had the audacity of consoling her, before forewarning her off me. He said I couldn’t be trusted. Now Dara is seriously angry and refusing to speak to me, says Blubber.
Dempsey and Tallulah are feeling very sorry for themselves. Both look scruffy this morning (fighting one another no doubt). As punishment, I’m refusing to serve them breakfast. Of course, they think it’s all mother’s doing. It still hasn’t clicked in their heads, the power we unborns hold over our mothers.
Mother still under the influence of yesterday’s all-night drinking spree.
The day deteriorates. Dara rang two hours ago. Says she is tired of our relationship because it’s not going anywhere. I yelled at her, asking which country she would like it to go to. Wish I hadn’t now. She’s in a real mood.
Early afternoon. Anton telephoned from St. Moritz. So embarrassing. He rattled off dozens of kisses down the line, obviously oblivious to my proximity. I just wish for once in a while grown-ups would behave themselves.
Anton says he has bought mother a beautiful, diamond necklace. Contains many carrots, he says. What does mother want with a necklace made of carrots?
I’m in the process of feeling depressed right now. Probably something to do with my flimsy, unborn veins still dripping with alcohol from last night.
Persuaded mother to slam the phone down on ‘gorgeous’ Anton as he was twittering away about what a special woman she is, and all that garbage.
After my powers of persuasion wore off, mother tried desperately to get back to Anton, but no luck. She’s blaming me now. Refusing to feed me for the next two days. Is she serious? She’ll never carry out that idle threat. She gets far too hungry.
Anton again rang mother, but this time reversed the charges. Extremely angry with mother.
‘I’m confused by your behavior,’ he said. Now she’s heartbroken. Anton says he is having second thoughts about their relationship. The necklace is now ‘around the neck of the chalet maid. It’s her birthday,’ he said, followed by what appeared to be a snort. I’m certain I heard laughter somewhere in the background.
Mother has little shame. She pleaded with Anton, insisting they were made for one another (subconsciously, I think she was referring to the necklace and herself), that her life would quickly ebb away and she would be emptier than an empty vessel without him (what?). Sounds like desperation. Oh please, get a grip woman.
Anton slammed down the telephone and mother used up the following hour, sniffling into her sleeve.
3.56pm. Sat bored in Brucies Hairdressers. Wondered which thumb to suck whilst mother read Hello magazine.
The lovely, slim-waisted trainee, offered us a latte w
ith biscuits, but mother fancied an espresso. The espresso machine was broken, so we settled for a latte.
Passed the time sucking my left thumb until it got sore, so switched to the right, waiting for my latte. Pompous Twit says if one starts by sucking ones thumb at a young age, ones thumbs’ will grow so big, one will not be able to stick them in ones ears and poke out ones tongue.
What a right royal twit.
Today Bruce was cutting mother’s hair. Poor sod.
He thought she was looking ‘radiant,’ and told her so. In my book, that’s crawling. Is he single? Can’t be gay. Hmm…dad is though.
Thought her lips were so red and full, ‘lovely, quite lovely,’ he creeped.
Brucie, the (another blonde) Australian, was getting right up my ‘nose’ (if only I had a decent one). I frowned at him. Yes, I know I shouldn’t have, especially as it gives you lines, but I couldn’t help myself.
Frowning was another toy I officially received this week. Dara hated it when I experimented on her.
The act of gripping. This was another software programme, downloaded automatically this afternoon. It installed directly into my hands and fingers, before re-channeling to my toes.
5.42pm. My mind is made up. I will never allow mother to visit Bruce’s hairdressers again. At £42.56p for an ‘unforgettable experience,’ (Bruce’s words, not mine), it was daylight robbery.
Rain fell minutes before we got home. Mother’s hair was a right old mess, and as usual, I got the flack.
Wednesday 26th November.
Disaster. Quicker than a flick from a viper’s tongue, the cake I was baking Dara, buckled fatefully after two hours of sweat and tears (mothers of course).
The Absurd Secret Diary Of An Unborn Baby Page 4
