

THE ABSURD

SECRET DIARY

OF AN

UNBORN BABY

By David N Bending

All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author or publisher.

First published in Great Britain in 2009

ISBN 978-1-326-97901-0

Copyright  2009 David n Bending. All rights reserved. Cover by Joleene Naylor 2011

The first eight weeks started off a little blurry, but yesterday, the blur slowly lifted, allowing my mind to explode in copious streams of thoughts.

I was comparing my cradle of unborn life to a construction site, the seeds of foundations sprouting, giving birth to an ever-rising, sleepless city, supplied and serviced by super highways, and not a slow lane in sight.

Take yesterday morning; I was resting in mother's womb, sucking on a thumb, minding my own business and without a care-in-the-world, when a light suddenly flickered on in my head. Consciousness had arrived, and without warning, my virgin, unborn brain, leapt on stage.

It wasn't a case of brain squeezing through the letter box or being delivered by express courier, standard parcels, or even, take-a-chance and wrap brain up in a covering of brown paper hoping the postman isn't dodgy or something, but it did seem to materialize out of the blue, and for the very first time I sensed a feeling of shock.

Take last night. I dreamt my brain had become the main attraction, with the showman's voice crying out, 'Roll up, roll up and buy a ticket or two. Come on in and wipe your feet, no gatecrashers please. Take a seat of your choosing, because the greatest show in the womb is about to begin.'

Because of the arrival of brain, I now know I own two pets; Dempsey, a mongrel dog, and a cat named after my hippie, pot-smoking grandmother, Tallulah.

After eight weeks, the living quarters have become comfortable. I even have a gym, a feeding station with compulsory heated pool thrown in, and an entrance, firmly secured with double padlocks. But, I get this constant nagging feeling insanity will eventually pay me a visit, pick desperately at the locks and let itself in. Probably, a painter would look upon my cell as a masterpiece, but a poet would definitely cry.

Only moments ago, I received my first dazzling idea. I wanted to create my very own diary. A secret diary.

So, here I float, relaxing in my balmy bath of amniotic fluid and daydreaming of Dara.

Who is Dara? Apparently, she's my girlfriend. I had no idea before week eight. Now that's what I call startling news. Dara said she was just as surprised and shocked as I was, especially as it appears we both liked smooching on the dance floor to love songs.

So, here begins my diary. I'll rattle through the first eight weeks seeing I only switch-on proper afterwards.

WEEK ONE

Day One.

Kicking-off on Lesbos; a hot and sunny Greek island. At precisely 7.22am, on the morning of August 4th 2008, there was a point of great detonation (to me at least). An egg was fertilised, so setting in motion my wheel of unborn life. I called it, 'My Big Bang.' To be honest, I didn't exactly exist at that very moment, but after the second 'Big Bang,' where I became two cells, I did.

Sally Summer, my mother, had taken a holiday, chasing the summer sun and getting away from everyone and everything. She'd been brought up as a wild child on the notorious Aegean island of Lesbos, where women chase women, chase men (in mother's case), chase anything.

I guess the likelihood of my father being a Greek waiter chasing mother through the hotel lobby was a possible scenario, as was a sun-worshipping beach Adonis tripping her up in the toe-burning sands, or even a fisherman after a day's catch, but in truth, my father was a very drunk, but affable Scottish tourist called Angus on holiday with his snorkeling partner Gary.

Baffles me why mother was his ideal catch of the day. Guess alcohol fudges brains, and what appears to be one thing is in fact, something opposite. Poor Gary must have been fuming.

I was shipped out from the shores of my unborn birthplace (the ovary), setting full sail to a land far off where mystery and whispering rumours told of a new landfall. The 'Womb,' they called it; a place of possible virgin territory, ripe for building creations on large industrial scales.

By the end of week one, I had been navigated through the choppy, dangerous waters of unthinkable depths.

Dry land was eventually sighted and the anchor thrown overboard. This land with its gathering workforce was to become my home for the next 39 weeks.

Mother, without knowing she was pregnant, got me drunk on vodka that week. If the NSPCC had caught a sniff, she could have been arrested. Technically though, I don't think I count as an abused child, just yet.

Week Two.

Cells galore. Like most large families, there were countless quarrels. My family of cells constantly procreated at break-neck speed, their destinies lying in other organ systems.

Some cells mistakenly bumped into one another, others passed by with a quick handshake, but sadly, a minority displayed sadistic signs of nastiness. These are the 'bully' cells, so damaged that a close watch on these was necessary.

Week two also witnessed the beginnings of a new framework surrounding my complicated placenta; construction turned out to be particularly swift here.

Mother made a new friend outside Sainsbury's this week. Surprise, surprise, she was also pregnant, and carrying a girl.

Week Three.

Early Tuesday morning. Woke up with a heavy hangover. Mother had danced barefoot into the early hours of Tuesday morning at the Quay Club, her favourite night-time haunt (she calls it dancing, but I call it making an exhibition of herself). She downed (and me) three tequila sunrises, two vodka martinis, large Plymouth gin and a Bloody Mary. The only thing remotely good about all this was she had a worse hangover than I did, but unfortunately, what she swallows, I swallow.

My multiplying cells were also caught-up in the dance fever bug, partying to their own version of a seedy nightclub.

Guess how many cells I had in week three? Millions upon millions. It was mind-blowing mayhem.

End of Week Three. The scaffolding to my placenta now fully erected, mainly due to speedy workmanship without cost savings or cutting corners.

Onsite accidents were reported, but remarkably, fewer recorded in the accident book. Should save on lawyers' costs.

Scaffolding erected to sculpt my heart, making it another positive sign of the workforce pulling together. They don't claim sick benefits here.

Week Four.

More scaffolding arrived and more muddy boots. My stomach, liver, thyroid and a basketful of other bits and pieces thrown in, experienced the satisfaction of being firmly welded together.

By the end of week four I was 4mm long (well, size isn't everything), and that's a big deal here in the unborn world of the womb. At four weeks old, the umbilical cord began to form.

Week Five.

Jumping aboard. I was dead wrong, size was everything, and when you shoot from 5 mm to 8 mm in a blink of a week, one had to be impressed. I weighed just over 1 gram, but a serious watch on those calories was still required.

Two gold stars are awarded to my arms and legs. Their looks were outrageous and turning into dead cool exhibitionists. Even my fingers showed signs of growth. Facial features steam-rolled into position with ears, mouth and nose, leading from the front.

Spinal cord and breathing passages jumped aboard, doing their bit for the cause, though construction was disappointing, recorded as being slow in some areas. My intestines comprised of a wobbly shape. Were they functioning? Well, maybe not yet but they will be, then they'll be ready for burgers and chips.

Week Six.

Watching and contemplating unborn life. Again, don't stop me. I stretched to an incredible 13 mm but still only weighed 1 gram. If I had a working brain, I'd have something to worry with, but at six weeks, my brain was still unemployed, lying stretched out in a deckchair, and waiting impatiently for the off.

At six weeks old, you could say embryonic life was about hanging loose, experiencing the comings and goings of the dedicated work force.

At six weeks, an embryo still only watches, automatically memorising and storing a library full of information into memory cells to be downloaded.

At six weeks old, my eyes were like black pinpricks, but I think they looked dead cool. Instead of a mouth, I had gills like a fish. I guess I looked stupid, but they were to form my jaw, neck and part of my face.

Recorded my first itch in week six that turned-up somewhere near my nose but I couldn't reach it.

Week Seven.

Brain almost ready to jump on stage. Rehearsals complete. Just required plugging into the mains-supply, cutting the ribbon and watching brain's revolving doors whirl open for the opening night.

Many questions should have been answered, like, where is the plug? The socket? Is a fuse necessary? Three pins or two? Should I stand well back? Should I be wearing rubber gloves and deck myself out in a rubber body suit in the unlikely case of an explosion? Should I take cover? But where? Or, am I just playing stupid? Remember, I was still just an unthinking recording studio at this stage of 'life,' and completely full of embryo!

Week Eight.

Sunday 5th October. D-DAY. Brain finally plugged in.

Hold that previous thought. I'm realising just how attached to my brain I really am. The Champagne corks blow in my head; curtains rise and brain skips onto the stage. Brain has become my best friend, and like all best friends, they should never let you down.

A thought for the day. Just downloaded this stuff off the hot-off-the-press internal news wire dedicated to unborns. Did you know we share 50% of our DNA with bananas and 40-50% with cabbages? You did. I think not.

If only you could see me now, floating lazily on my back, daydreaming in a warm, relaxing bubble bath and sipping a glass of cold champagne (all womb imagination of course) whilst creating my very own secret diary.

Just heard that my status amongst unborns has been unexpectedly upgraded. As from Sunday today, in the eighth week of my miraculous creation, I'm officially rubber stamped as a foetus.

4.07 pm. Present length 30 mm and still stretching. Head faintly rising, facial features surprisingly good. Internal organs are smiling but clearly in the early phases of unborn existence. Limbs, hands, sticky fingers and budding toes, developing to prescribed programme, but most importantly of all, my tiny beating heart has only gone and fallen in love. It is dancing the quickstep before beating to the rhythm of the rumba in all four-heart chambers.

After the dance of 'the four chambers,' heart is suffering stage fright, like an actor's first night nerves; sticking head down toilet bowl. Maybe heart is experiencing life-threatening palpitations, in which case, don't panic.

My first love as you know is also an unborn. We met at our local Sainsbury's in my second week. Her mother's surname is Doo, so my first love is, my little Dara Doo.

First-love wants to name me Paris. It was classy and meaningful,' she said. I told her I didn't want a classy, meaningful name,' and she shouldn't read so many classic novels. Now she's sulking. Didn't realise girls could be so sensitive. Another lesson learnt.

Monday 6th October.

Feeling unwell. Was I suffering from a life threatening fever? No.Was it swine flu? No. Was it the curry? It was. How do I know? Because after eating a scorching hot Indian, mother answered a little after midnight. She thoughtfully brought up the horrid looking contents of her stomach, but I didn't think it resembled much of a curry. Mother vomited all night, but thankfully, not over me.

Tuesday 7th October.

Mother worships idols (dead and alive), like George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin and some 70's singer called Melanie, but most of all, she worships Beatrice Dalle. Beatrice who? She played the character Betty in the film Betty Blue. More of that another day.

My padded cell is so big I could swing a great, floppy fish around this weird water world I inhabit. If only I could hang out a sign on my front door saying, 'Don't feed the fish, just feed me.' Are you listening mother?

Yesterday, when I was waiting for the number 29 bus outside Ronnie Patel's British Fish and Chip Shop on the corner of Moon Street, I overheard a two-week old newborn in a pram complaining (I think he was Joshua the Jew in his unborn days). He was telling his neighbour how 'one doesn't realise what is lost when the womb is just a distant memory. It is only when having lost your home, you appreciate what has come and gone.' I think he'll be a philosopher one day.

Wednesday 8th October.

Today I have developed temperamental tantrums. What follows temperamental tantrums? Temperamental breakdowns of course. I am fully stressed, and could someone please call a doctor. I feel a strong urge to kick out at something. Strangely, mother comes to mind. Then again, kick out with what? My legs are too short, my feet too inadequate. Everything is too small.

Thursday 9th October. Evening.

In the short period I have known mother, she has been fired from many jobs. Take five weeks ago; she worked as a waitress in Harvey's Hamburgers and was fired every day from the same job. Harvey kept re-hiring her, but finally, after the 18th time, he insisted she keep re-applying to a new restaurant. I guess he eventually saw the light.

Late Evening. Mother is reclining on the sofa, remembering past moments like the time she bumped into French actress Beatrice Dalle, the infamous Betty in the film, Betty Blue.

Mother first met Beatrice one rainy day on a Brittany beach holiday in St.Malo. They became friends, then lost touch (Beatrice became a big star, mother didn't). In mother's current state of mind, it was the character of Betty Blue she met, not the actress Beatrice Dalle. I'm seriously considering sectioning mother to a top security, lunatic asylum, paid for by the NHS of course. However, here comes the crunch, because if mother does go inside, so do I, then I would be incarcerated in two padded cells. In that case, two cells are not better than one.

Friday 10th October. Morning.

Late for the doctor's appointment. It rained cats and dogs all morning. Mother telephoned for a taxi. I suffered severe, traumatic shock syndrome when the taxi eventually arrived. It was dressed-up in shocking pink from boot to bonnet. Because of the rain, the Pink Pussy Cat Cars were the only taxi firm available. I told mother she was a complete embarrassment ordering such a head-turner. However, embarrassment is foreign to mother. There would be more chance of embarrassing a lap-dancer.

The driver looked seriously obese. Reckon there was the strong possibility of him having a massive heart attack whilst driving.

His name was Tony, our pink sweater, Pink Pussy Cat driver. His wrist jangled with all the top-of-the-range (his words), bling (my word), including a 24-carat gold (he boasted), bracelet, but my top-of-the-range sixth sense told me it was cheap 9 carat. I kept my mouth shut (not that I've much of one at present).

The traffic was horrendous. My poor heart was palpitating faster than it takes an MP to cheat on his wife in the first year on the job.

Tony drove off in the wrong direction. Mother swore, then threatened him with serious GBH, but Tony swore back and said he couldn't be intimidated that easily. Said he needed sympathy because he was new to the area. I reminded him that was no excuse. He said he wasn't quite sure of the routes. Is he paid to upset paying customers? Tony ignored me. That is so rude.

Thank god, the doctor is running late. Yesterday, an outbreak of Methicillin-Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus was creeping all over the doctor's waiting room, resulting in an untidy backlog of patients today, so the receptionist grumbled.

Mother looked puzzled, (frequently gives that impression). She had no idea what MRSA was. What is she like? Appears MRSA is a deadly infection. I wish doctors and nurses would carry out what they preach and wash their hands and nails thoroughly. Rubbing their ears across the stomachs' of pregnant women can't be hygienic. Weeds can grow inside ears if they're not cleaned every day, grandma Tallulah says.

The doctor's surgery was crowded with pregnant women. I literally bumped into Dara, my first and only love. She gave a giggle. I said she was the prettiest girl in all the wombs. She again giggled.

My mother sat next to Dara's mum, whilst sitting opposite, was an old lady, probably getting on for forty or thereabouts. Looked dark around the eyes, and nervously puffed on a cancerous cigarette. Many of the younger, pregnant women in the waiting room threw her threatening stares. The cigarette smoke rushed through mother's umbilical cord and straight into me, but I'm already addicted to nicotine.

Sitting diagonally were Zilli and Zalli. These were a couple of dead cool girls. They're seven weeks old and identical twins from the snowy lands of Siberia. Circus blood circulates through their veins. I first met the twins last week at Gorgeous Jorge's, our local award-winning hairdresser. The girls insisted on having blue, braided strands woven into their hair, with double stitch-over lapping, but settled on their mother being the guinea pig. My mother settled for strands of pink. I hate pink.

Zilli and Zalli's mother was a former circus-rider and trapeze artist in the Siberian State Circus, and their father was a Georgian ringmaster. The twins treated me to a routine of spectacular, gymnastic workouts. Understandably, it didn't go down too well with their mother.

In one corner of the waiting room, looking around a water dispenser rather slyly, I thought, was an unborn I hadn't seen before. I'll call him New Kid on the Block. Sneers a great deal and no doubt a fully paid-up member from the school of arrogance.

Overheard a middle-age woman wishing she was pregnant just like the teenage schoolgirl sitting beside her. Surprise, surprise, she was pregnant, just didn't know it yet.

My so righteous friend, Pompous Twit, and his so clever mother (has PhD), sat next to my mother (no PhD). He's a nine week old, and already full of his own self-importance. Lives in a leafy-lined avenue with his single parent mother. Father ran off with the family's Polish au pair three weeks earlier. Pompous said his mother discovered the girl was advertising herself in the local rag as an actress. Wonder if she's ever acted with great Hollywood stars, like Paris Hilton or Victoria Beckham?

Pompous discovered he has a new pair of bendable wrists and making sure everyone knows about it. Just wish my wrists were primed and ready for competition. 'Sir' Pompous sniffed that his mother was an Atomic Particle Scientist, votes BNP and cooks the best chocolate zombies in England. His Scottish granny also bakes the best tartan zombies, so he says. Sometimes (well, always), Pompous can be so aloof as to be indecipherable.

Another of my friends, 'Blubber' was rocking aimlessly on his mother's umbilical.

Blubber said he went 'white water wafting in the wiver wapids of Womania, and it was so howibly cold.' At eight weeks, Blubber is still very young, like me in fact, but unlike me, he is naïve.

The only other unborn in the doctor's surgery I saw, was a very quiet girl. I'll call her BouBoo. She hadn't said a word. Maybe her vocal-chords are not quite yet correctly positioned.

Caught Dara smiling and waving at New Kid on the Block. He openly returned the smile and waved, but sneered in my direction. Clearly dislikes me. Good. It's mutual then. I'll put money on he can't even count his friends on one finger.

Dara insisted she hadn't waved or smiled at him. It was a ponging womb, she said, and was waving the pong away. A grimace not a smile, so she says.

I wonder sometimes if my first love really cares about my feelings. At this critical stage of our relationship, it wouldn't take much to break my newly arrived four chambered, and now, fully deflated heart. How could a first love be so horrible?

Lesson one. Be careful before trusting an unborn female. They are deadly fickle, and often uncaring. As changeable as the nine tides of the womb, I think.

Late Evening. At Lazy Lucy's Nightclub. Watched Disco Dez dancing to 'Saturday Night Fever.' Downloaded musical archives from the 70's. States this noise died a death decades ago. Dez reminds me of a (very, very) young black John Travolta, but without the hips.

The dance floor was full of beautiful, young things, like highly salaried, city professionals. Cocktails were being slurped in one hand, mobiles tightly glued to the ear, in the other.

Dez is a dead good dancer. I was obviously and seriously jealous. He was pulling-in all the girls. Probably something to do with using his umbilical cord like a pole-dancer.

We bumped wombs throughout the night. Seriously embarrassing. I would have definitely preferred bumping wombs with Dara any day or night.

Mother is so dead drunk that she's singing soulful songs about how lucky she is carrying me. It's a crying shame she never tells me when she's dead sober.

Saturday 11th October. Morning.

Felt dangerously unwell today. Don't think it's from mother's drinking or over-dosing on nicotine, but could be the beginnings of the MRSA bug from yesterday's visit to the doctors. My mother's fault for registering with a doctor's surgery that was evidently filthy. There are too many so-called sick people visiting doctors' surgeries I think, insisting on sick notes to claim benefits to cop-off work.

Late afternoon. The MRSA bug has scuttled from my body. At last, I'm free from the disease, if I ever had it of course.

Week Nine.

Downloaded my daily news medical-bulletin. Mentions my eyes being a great cause for concern. Seems the construction workers have refused to commit to a contracted deadline.

Had a worrying shock. Eyes refuse to budge from the side of my head. Playing a game of stubborn gits, no doubt. At least my eyes are now beginning to focus.

Feet look less webbed. As for my wrists, the scaffolding was dissembled yesterday. I'll give them a bloody good workout soon.

Sunday 12th October.

Why was I designated this wanton womb? Mother is drinking herself silly under the table again. Too many dry vodka martinis, shaken but not stirred. If she doesn't ease up soon, I'll end up being a regular at Alcoholics Anonymous.

Monday 13th October.

Slept all day. The sad effects of a raging hangover.

Tuesday 14th October.

Ditto.

Wednesday 15th October.

Ditto, but restless.

Thursday 16th October.

Slowly re-surfaced somewhere outside my mind, far beyond the womb.

Friday 17th October. Morning. D-Day.

Bad omen in the sky. A good omen would be hard rain, lightning even better. However, the sky is clear, and unfortunately for me, that's our signal to step into the plane.

Bag carefully packed, tightly secured, and I hope fully tested, but instead of dreaming of flying to distant Greek islands, the bag is strapped to my mother's back. Skydiving anyone?

Dara looks deadly nervous and I'm seriously petrified. We are the distressed owners of two very dangerous, and in my opinion, deranged psycho-brained mothers (must look up the Mental Health Act), each willing to jump out of a plane at 15,000 ft. Sheer madness if you ask me, not that anyone EVER does. Must urgently memo myself, if I return home safely, to telephone a Human Rights lawyer. Must be able to get mother on something.

The strong whiff of alcohol on mother's breath, confirmed my suspicions. She must have taken a crafty slurp when I was having forty winks.

This jump is going to be a living nightmare, and guess what? It's all mine.

10.54 am. Was I nudged? Was I pushed? No, I was thrown out of the plane... Clear case of baby abuse. Call the lawyers now.

Mother screams and I yell. I'll never speak to her again. Dara's mother whoops for joy, but she's an experienced skydiver. Mother must take gross pleasure from psychotic fun.

This is my first ever white-knuckle ride. What a time to baptise my newly arrived, bendable wrists.

I clench hold of the life support system (umbilical cord), for the dearest of unborn baby life. The raw pull of the Earth's gravity, which I didn't expect, is pulling at my new four-chambered heart, causing it to miss scores of beats. The pounding became louder and got frighteningly faster. The gawping mouth of terra-firma was getting closer with the passing of every second.

Would you believe it! The primary chute has just failed. Typical. Who packed this bloody parachute? I didn't wish to die before I'm even born.

Looked up towards mother. Wished I hadn't. A sticky, gooey mess of chewing gum was clinging to her nose. It was obscene. Looked ridiculous. Thought I could trust her with my life, obviously not.

Mother completed a complicated rolling position onto her back (I must have missed that lesson). Seriously prayed she wasn't thinking of giving birth just yet. Certainly would have brought a completely new meaning to natural birthing. There was, looking on the positive side, a real chance of survival now, I think.

10.56 am. A knight in shining armour descended out of the clouds. Will the noble knight rescue us from certain death? Text your messages now.

'Pull the bloody cord, you idiot. The yellow one.' Mother tugged furiously at the green cord. Idiot. Obviously, this was the moment all colours seem alike. However, because PANIC was now sitting on both our shoulders, humming to itself with a hint of insanity thrown in, I shouldn't be too harsh on her.

Tallulah and Dempsey were no doubt trying to throttle one another somewhere below, unaware of their master's plight. Who would now open the tins of fish, pour milk into their saucers and threaten them with homelessness?

10.57am. 'No, no, not green. The yellow, the yellow. This, this,' the shining knight yelled. He was probably more concerned with how this incident would appear on his precious career CV.

I also thought it best to search for my yellow cord to tug.

No success. I had the umbilical cord, but it was turning deathly white. Can't blame it really.

Must search harder for the yellow cord. About to suffer my first serious breakdown.

Mother (where would we be without them?) is the unlikely hero. She only found the reserve chute.

With a single, swift and determined flick of her wrist, she pulled the cord. Somehow, it grudgingly opened.

I quickly followed her example. Tugged on my own cord, even if the unintentional effect was mother wincing in pain.

Far above, I saw Dara waving, jumping up and down like a lunatic and doing loop the loop. My first love is so excitable. I was not about to fail her now and end my final, unborn moments, lying splattered across the airfield.

What a bloody hero my mother is. British and all. 'God save our gracious queen, long live our noble queen, god save the queen, send her victorious, happy and glorious,' and the rest .....

11.10 am or thereabouts. My head did an 'Australian' and went walkabout. Fell into a large prickly bush backside first (mother's), but at least we landed safely. Appears my unborn body cells are destined for greater things in life after all.

Saturday 18th October. Early next morning.

My eyes feel under developed this morning, gritty and red, tired and emotional. Instead of ending up dead in some cheap, tacky coffin, we were still alive.

Saturday night. Danced late into the night at Lazy Lucy's Nightclub. Told Dara how incredibly drop-dead gorgeous she looked. She complimented me and insisted I looked the same.

New Kid was nowhere to be seen. Thought he would have wanted to celebrate my escape-act from the jaws of death. Guess he's sulking at my misfortune to have escaped death.

Finally, Dara and I got to dance, but unfortunately, it was also our last. I like to think we held hands whilst dancing into the night, holding her close, before mother dashed into the toilet with her head stuck firmly down the pan, holed up in the lavatory.

12.00 Midnight. Disturbed by knocking on my cell door.

Mother's new boyfriend is a Swiss skiing instructor called Anton. Anton is a bottle-blonde, drives a silver Merc and showers mother with the best Swiss chocolates, no doubt, handmade by his very own fingers. What's he after?

The knock at my front door, though a smudge fuzzy due to my internal ear structures not fully formed until next week, grew louder.

'Behaving yourself in there,' said the bottle-blonde, but it should have been Angus, my biological father saying these words, not mother's newest, wind him up and watch him perform, toy boy.

Today, I am officially recognised as a foetus. One moment I was an embryo, the next, a foetus. It was not long ago I was an unthinking, two-bit cell of nonsense. Now look at me. Even my toes are sprouting.

Week Ten.

I'm on the move. Should be 50mm to 61mm long by the end of the week.

Sunday 19th October.

Slept most of the day. Counted obese sheep going to market.

Monday 20th October. Late evening.

Officially, I am the very proud owner of two, beautifully crafted, internal ear structures, both fully formed and wired for unborn sound. First mission today will be to press my ear against the wall of mother's womb. Outer ear still not created yet.

Think mother must be watching a farming programme on the television. I hear snorting. Pigs maybe?

Solved. Mother is snoring.

Strange. My hearing still not functioning as it should. Experiencing siren sounds. Maybe I've contracted a deadly infectious siren disease.

Solved. It's a speeding fire engine with blaring siren, screeching tyres, blue flashing lights, and its right outside our bloody house.

Very late evening. Those brave fire fighters saved our house. It could have burnt down. I tried waking mother by whacking her with a series of deadly, karate-chops, followed by a bout of kickboxing. Nothing worked. I threw a hefty, right uppercut, followed by a left uppercut. Still she slept. In fact, if anything, her snoring got louder.

In the end, it was a misdirected (or well-directed) gush from a fire fighter's hose straight through our open window, drenching mother, which woke her.

A neighbourly neighbour, called Billy Bridges (he's 96 years old and got a George Cross medal, so he says), saved the day by dialing 999, but only after dialing Search and Rescue, then ordering a pizza.

He noticed the plumes of deadly, black smoke escaping from our open lounge window.

I think good neighbours should always be cherished, even if they do insist on having bigger and better barbeques than you.

Tuesday 21st October. After breakfast.

Dara telephoned, courtesy of her mother. 'Woke up with a severe head cold,' she said, and understandably was down in the dumps. Like my mother, Mrs Doo also enjoys a tipple or two.

Disco Dez has asked Dara out on a date. New Kid on the Block also tried his luck, and to add insult to further injury, Pompous Twit telephoned my girl. Pompous thought she was a 'special lady' and told her so, even willing to escort her to a restaurant of her choice. Said he'd found an opening in his nearly full diary.

My friends were trying their luck with my girl and quite rightly, in my opinion, she turned them all down. Now that IS love.

Dara Doo has grown to 10.5 cm and now weighs 40 grams. Most girls will do anything to avoid revealing their true weight, but Dara is different. I'm her boyfriend, and she tells me everything, she says.

Wednesday 22nd October.

Slept all day, unless you count the number of times I kicked Tallulah off mum's naked stomach as she snoozed, tired from the booze.

Thursday 23rd October.

My placenta is almost complete. Just requires a few nips and tucks here and there.

Friday 24th October.

Received an urgent phone call from Dara. Sounded very upset. After blubbering on for nearly a minute, she regained some composure. Ari was dead, she said.

'Oh no, not Harry, young Mary O'Rourke's unborn?'

'No, Ari the blues singer,' she sobbed.

Poor old Ari passed away at 32 weeks. He was getting-on a bit I know, which makes it all the more poignant. His mother smoked like a trooper (forty a day). I think his coffin should have been sponsored by Marlboro cigarettes.

The funeral service has been inked in for Tuesday at noon. Ari would have been dead proud of his friends. All insisted on turning out to say their farewells. Ari had become a very popular guy in the world of the unborns. I just hope all the expecting mothers attend; otherwise, we could experience major problems.

Saturday 25th October.

Anton, mother's Austrian toy boy, barged uninvited into the bathroom. He looked at my mum's naked stomach before caressing it gently. Very unusual for him. 'Are we behaving in there?' he asked. As usual, I refused to answer. Anyway, it should be my dad saying these intimate things. The rest of the morning just rushed by in a blur.

Week Eleven.

By the end of this week, I will be approximately 7.5cm long and weigh 12.5 grams. For now my major organs like the brain, liver, lungs and kidneys, are clearly defined and already functioning. My fingernails are also growing in. My head is a little on the large size for now, but not to worry, it will soon sort itself out.

Sunday 26th October.

Disco Dez literally gave me the bumps at the supermarket. Our mothers collided into one-another whilst out shopping. Mother tried squeezing between two trolleys, but failed miserably. I was an inch from being flattened like a kipper.

Friday week will be Dez's twenty-first birthday and he's invited me. I can escort any partner, he said. Of course, he knew Dara was the chosen one. He fancies her I'm sure. Seems everyone does these days.

Monday 27th October.

It's raining, and why hasn't Dara phoned? Does she love me? Women, who really understands them?

My brain was upgraded yet again. I am never consulted over these matters. It is so rude.

Tuesday 28th October. A truly sad day.

At Ari's funeral service, everyone who was anyone was there.

There was the circus twins, Disco Dez, Blubber who was crying. Even Pompous Twit paid his respects.

Dara looked lovely, and her eyelashes were emerging. I'm dead certain they fluttered at me.

New Kid showed his face. Mores the pity.

The church service was a dead sombre affair. All made the effort to sing, but we were never going to make the music charts.

Because my eyes are still positioned to the sides, I can see, if a little fuzzy, to the right and left simultaneously. Any foe would find it impossible to creep up behind me unawares.

Many of the unborns at the church consisted of half arm, half leg, one eye, one ear, no nose, no brain (Pompous Twit comes to mind), creations, but all had one thing in common, the courage to sing and dance. Ari would have been chuffed, and loved his own funeral.

The circus twins swung their umbilical cords to the rhythm of the church organ, whilst other unborns gave marks out of ten. Thought I would try a couple loop the loops.

I had only just grabbed hold of the umbilical, when I felt a severe pain; somewhere where my liver was in the process of being created. Something was not quite right.

News bulletins were continually rolling-in off my internal news wire. The scaffolding was still erected around my liver, but should have been dismantled by now.

With a little internal asking around, I discovered the workers had down tools and were on a no negotiation, two-day strike because of conditions. What conditions?

Meanwhile... The church funeral reminded me of a Carry On Film. The funeral service finished quicker than we had anticipated. The mothers' were beginning to leave the church. We hadn't even commenced our speeches yet.

The older unborns hastily paid tribute to Ari's wicked sense of humour etc, etc. The oldest, which was Barney sludge nose (named because his nose never stops dripping green goo), gave a rushed rendition of 'You'll never walk alone,' before saluting little Ari's coffin. Some of us saluted and the rest did their best. New Kid was reciting a rather grubby story about a nun, a priest and an actor. I will not recall what was said, but Blubber nearly fainted from the shock. He's led a very sheltered life.

Wednesday 29th October.

At last, lungs and kidneys are now functioning.

Tallulah has a cough. She only has herself to blame though; she was the idiot who stayed out all night in the thunder and rain, chasing dogs.

Like all unborns, we have this unique ability to 'persuade' mothers to fulfill our wishes from time to time. Therefore, mother put on a clean skirt and blouse, kicked Tallulah out of the house (I think it expected a cosy purr beside the fire. Tough), and off we spluttered in mum's car to shop until we dropped. I wanted to put my lungs to the test.

Just occasionally, a total stranger will approach a hapless victim in the street. This time it was a hapless stranger called Bert. Bert was a student, so he said. His grand vision was to help others less fortunate than himself by overcoming worldwide poverty. Very noble I thought, but he will need help. Bert possessed a flaw (possibly more), and mother was the last person to flash his 'flaw' at.

Bert held out his 'do-gooder,' bright yellow, charity, money tin, directly under mother's nose, and foolishly rattled the contents very loudly. His second BIG mistake was to smile. It was the kind of smile that wouldn't leave his face. Fatal move, Bert.

Mother insisted on seeing his I.D, so he flashed his card. Mother insisted on using his mobile to check the I.D; to check that this young, spotty chinned, spotty nosed student, with heavy Liverpudlian accent, was who he said he was. You can't be too careful these days; thieves lurk around every corner. Bert muttered something about it being a 'pay as you go' phone.

With my newly arrived inner-ear structures, I heard the, 'batteries are low,' mobile phone, bleep. After a lengthy ten minutes, mother appeared satisfied. Bert still smiled, but now did mother at the lonely sound of a five pence piece, hitting the bottom of Bert's empty tin. Must have been heart wrenching for him. How could he feed the hungry world now? Mother's motto is 'charity begins at home.'

Thursday 30th October. Late evening.

Can't sleep. Keep tossing and turning. Mother thinks she's entitled to playing music, no matter how late into the night. 'We do have neighbours to worry about,' I reminded her.

Halloween tomorrow. Dara has already prepared her mask; so has Pompous Twit; so has Blubber, who insists on frightening us.

New Kid is at his aunts. Great. No stalkers to worry about then.

My mask is just about complete; requires just a few gruesome touches.

My list for Halloween:

Large pumpkin (if pumpkins are sold out, guess a large turnip will do).

Small scented candle (hate scented candles but Dara loves them).

Scary mask (work in progress).

Scary black cape.

Broomsticks (one each for Dara and me).

Cheese and onion crisps (two packets. One each for Dara and me).

Tin of Coke (share with Dara).

Persuade mother to buy everything on the list. Some hope.

A friendly neighbour decided to call the police. It was Billy Bridges again. He complained about mother's music being too loud. I agree. The neighbours cannot sleep, including me (her tenant).

The police were, I think, rightly annoyed and complained that mother was over-stretching their thin numbers. She's been given her first and final warning. If I were a police officer trying to gain 'brownie' points, I'd have thrown the book at her by now. Maybe police don't carry books anymore, and we certainly don't have any in our house.

At last, mother fell onto the sofa exhausted. Tallulah meowed outside on the cold window cill.

Friday 31st October. Halloween.

New Kid made an unwelcome house call on Dara. He's invited her to a dance-class for pregnant mothers. What a nerve asking my girlfriend to partner him for the evening. She rightly refused his offer, of course, but her mother accepted. The cow.

Tossing a few ideas up into the air the other day (and Dara agrees), I'm moving out and setting up home with Dara. She thinks it's a great idea and promises to talk to her mother about it.

Dara spent all day digging out the mush from her oversize pumpkin before cooking a dozen pumpkin pies.

Dara will insert a candle in the pumpkin for Halloween night. I've ended up with a small turnip. The local market ran out of pumpkins by the time my mother tottered along to her local fruit and veg stall. Still, at least she tried de-mushing our undersize turnip.

Late Afternoon. New Kid was unwell. 'Dying of a deadly disease,' said Blubber before crying. Good. That means New Kid won't be making an appearance tonight. His mother, like mine, is an alcoholic.

Halloween party this evening. I have a scary mask, black cape, broomsticks, and one very nearly, completed turnip.

Disaster. How could she? Halloween has been cancelled. Mother's refusing to wear the scary mask, so has called off sick. This Halloween was meant to be my date with Dara (we don't get out in the evenings that often). Planned to knock on the neighbours' doors (especially the grumpy ones), then runaway.

Saturday 1st November.

Weight approaching 20 grams, and I have grown to 9 cm. Not bad for a foetus under severe stress.

Tallulah has started sniffing. Not glue, but possibly flu. Virulent flu strains could kill me at this stage of my unborn life.

Dempsey has disappeared. That's the good news. No more expensive dog food to buy. Maybe mother can feed me properly now.

Week Twelve.

My vocal cords are showing signs of growth. The news has taken me by such surprise that, on the spur of the moment, I unwisely 'persuaded' mother to buy a karaoke machine. What possessed me? Now she can't tear herself away from the bloody contraption.

Week twelve is witnessing the removal of my scaffolding. I must look quite cool. This week I have an important appointment at the local hospital for a Doppler scan. My blood flow and Placenta need checking.

From now on, the main focus will be growth and strength rather than the formation of new organs.

Fingers and toes have become separated and fully formed. Toenails and tooth buds have surfaced.

Sunday 2nd November.

Dempsey has re-appeared. Looked scrawny after just one night away. His pathetic, 'feel sorry for me' look, didn't produce the required sympathy he was obviously hoping for.

Monday 3rd November.

Had a great idea. Brilliant really. When I'm born, I'll emerge head first reciting the alphabet or spouting off multiplication tables, or even verse after verse of Shakespeare. 'Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers,' or 'Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat.' Brilliant.

Mother is poorly today. She's lying flat on her back with two cushions supporting her neck, and two aspirins having already slipped down her throat. Eyes tightly closed; she's mumbling nonsense (nothing new there then). She has backache and so do I. She's also taking sleeping pills, which means, so am I.

Early this morning the telephone rang. It was Dara. Sounded so upset I put my newly acquired, caring skills into practice. Her parents were arguing and accidentally, I guess, let it slip Dara was a mistake. In the world of the unborn, we call them 'stowaways.' I didn't think Dara was a mistake and told her so. Mrs Doo can be so uncaring at times.

Anton has bought mother a car. A Citroen 2CV. Dad (biological) once said that a 2CV was wound up with a rubber band, then accelerates away at 20mph whilst the driver screams, 'watch this baby skid.'

Late evening. Our family doctor has criticised mother for not having a flu injection. He's insisting she receives one for the sake of the baby.

Heard rumours of a worldwide, winter flu epidemic this year, possibly coming out of North Korea. Mother has come to the conclusion, I don't need protection. Drastic measures are called for. If I drink enough of my amniotic fluid, then, just maybe, I've done a DIY on myself.

Tuesday 4th November.

My biological father will soon be celebrating his birthday, so mother has promised him a special present at the 'pink' store, Twinkles. His favourite. Mother thoughtfully cut out five, shop coupons from the local rag, and if she adds another five pounds, the Twinkle store promises to double the amount.

Wednesday 5th November.

Tallulah thinks she's ill, and probably is, considering the number of fur balls she's been coughing up recently. Mother rang vet Toby Browne-Smith, but Toby was not convinced a visit was necessary. I thought he sounded very unhappy. His voice was even threatening towards mother. This has probably something to do with our family history over false call-outs. Browne-Smith insisted mother catch the cat even if she was pregnant. He hates chasing Tallulah in our back garden.

Mother foolishly fed Tallulah a plate of high-energy breakfast this morning. Big mistake. By the time the vet arrived, Tallulah had bolted. Browne-Smith was furious. The tale-tale signs of anger showed in his steaming, contorted face. It expanded like a balloon, all stretched and red. Thought he would explode any moment.

Tallulah eventually caught, but vet thinks mother is a complete imbecile. Know how he feels.

5.56pm. Mother received a telephone call from a girl representing the Jolly Rodgers Holiday Tour Company. Appears she has won a holiday for two. Where? Mother didn't know. Too excited for trivialities like destinations, but in the excitement, she did offer the nice girl a free holiday.

Mother eventually came to her senses. Now the faceless girl on the end of the phone is doing a stroppy and threatening to offer it to the runner-up. Mother offered the girl one hundred pounds for her silence. Could do without the bad newspaper publicity.

6.46pm. Tallulah forcibly returned home from the vets. Has disgraced herself (again). Two part-time, teenage helpers on a school work-experience course are now so traumatised by Tallulah's antics; they say they'll never work at a veterinary practice ever again.

Discovered Australia is our holiday destination. Anton said he would love to join us but will be busy skiing in Austria. Just the two of us then.

8.05pm. Turned up late at the local firework display. The guy on top of the bonfire looked just like Uncle Billy. In the semi-dark, a little girl's voice shouted, 'burn the guy.'

Spotted a friend in the crowd. My unborn mate, Tommy Ato. Just returned from a family trip to his native Japan. His dad is full-on Japanese, but his mother is all over the place, being half-English, with a smudge of Jew, a drop of Tibetan and the rest Arab.

His dad will name him Red if a boy and Blush if a girl, but I prefer Tommy.

Waved repeatedly at Tommy but he couldn't have seen me. Probably preoccupied with the rotten racist who tried to throw his mother into the bonfire.

9.07pm. Racist was kicked by Mr Ato, and then thrown into the bonfire.

9.09pm. Mr Ato arrested by a police officer who obviously didn't know better. Mrs Ato pleaded her husband's innocence to the police officer whilst trying to bribe him.

9.10pm. Mrs Ato arrested for trying to bribe a police officer. What happened to the racist? He'll be taking up valuable NHS bed space in an Intensive Care Ward.

Thursday 6th November.

Dara says the racist thug has taken a turn for the worse in Intensive Care. Even better, news filtering down from the hot-off-the-press internal news wire, states that my on strike work-force have come to their senses, and with overtime, should be stretching me towards 9 cm in length very soon, with a weight of 20 grams by the end of the week.

Bad news. Mother is planning to gatecrash a dance class tonight. Problem. This dance class is co-run by New Kid on the Block. Could end up being one very bloody affair.

Our roof has leaked again. Hasn't stopped raining all day. Furniture very soggy and all because mother wouldn't pay a roofer to repair a loose tile.

Friday. 7th November.

Had a fight with New Kid last night. Our mothers were dancing embarrassingly to loud techno music, their tums repeatedly hitting into each other. I dodged a flailing punch from New Kid, but landed my very own right uppercut to his chin.

Ignoring the fight, the evening turned out better than expected. A Russian gang of unborn triplets were doing the Conga with twins Zilli and Zalli trying the Tango, and Dara and I danced the Quickstep. New Kid sulked, so it was perfect.

Anton rang with an apology. Says he'll be returning to England Saturday week. She accepts his 'lame' excuse of a heavy workload, but I reckon he is seeing a chalet girl. I heard a girl breathing heavily next to Anton.

Mother is lying on her bed with a funny cigarette, feeling depressed and staring gormlessly through glazed eyes at her framed Betty Blue poster on the wall. 'Where are you Betty when I need you?' she cried. My mother is off her rocker.

Saturday 8th November.

Evening. A large, 'made in china,' Guy Fawkes rocket was tossed through our letterbox, except the idiot forgot to light the touch paper. A Jack in the Box would have been funnier.

Week Thirteen.

This week marks the end of three months of frantic creation. Less chance of miscarriage. That's a relief. In addition, my eyes are on the march, steadily creeping closer together and making me appear increasingly human like. I'll miss not being able to look in two directions at the same time, but I guess one must move with the times.

Ears also making fast tracks to their correct positions. Apart from on-site scaffolding, I now have pulleys and chains. Life is such a beach, or is it a 'ball'? Oh, who cares? Let's call it a beach ball.

Sunday 9th November.

Mother, me, Dempsey and Tallulah slept all day.

Monday 10th November.

Rumours are spreading that Dara and New Kid are 'seeing' each other. I will confront her.

I have written out a list of Christmas presents. My first and last.

Xmas list.

Dara (Cardboard cut-out of me and her favourite perfume)

Mum (Alcoholics Anonymous yearly subscription)

Dad (Perfume again)

Anton (Cigar, if I must. Not Cuban. A mass produced smoke will do)

Zilla & Zalli (Handcuffs)

Blubber (Frilly-hanky)

Pompous Twit (Union Jack socks)

Sir Bernard McDaffady (Hand-made Cuban cigar)

Lady Liza McDaffady (Hand-made headscarf and cigar. Noticed her smoking the other day)

Lady Jane Delicious McDaffady (Hand-made nightie. No cigar.)

List to be continued at later date...

Sir Bernard McDaffady is our landlord who enjoys smelly Cuban cigars. He's a Scottish Aristocrat and wears an ancient McDaffady kilt. Mother says he's a rogue and shouldn't be trusted. Why not? He often sends mother letters, so he must be nice. Mother says he owns the whole street and six more nearby. The McDaffady family often drive past in their chauffeur driven, tartan Bentley, and like to wave to everyone, even the tenants who peer out behind lace, net curtains.

I'm not a crawler, but people in the street like the Scottish, McDaffady Clan, with all their wealth, so I'm promoting them to the top of my first-ever, list of Christmas presents.

Evening. Went to the cinema with Dara and Blubber. Watched a re-run of, 'The Titanic.' It turned out a real sloppy tear-jerker. Dara thought it beautiful and romantic (she tried putting an arm around me, but couldn't). Blubber cried of course (slipped off his perch and fell into his 'amniotic sea'). The sound system in the cinema was dead loud.

Outside the cinema, I asked everyone if they enjoyed the film I paid for. Dara thought it cool but Blubber said, 'What film?' Idiot.

Tuesday 11th November. Early.

Postman arrived early. Dempsey somersaulted in the air and cleverly snapped up the letters. Mother decided the only letter worth sticking back together again was the housing giro.

Mid-morning. Mother still clicking the keys of her laptop. She's been surfing the world's finest fashion shops for the past 2 hours, and leaving her e-mail in every inbox so as to receive up-to-date downloads on cut-price bargains. Also browsed the NASA website by mistake. I thought, 'wow' this looks interesting. Just about to sign-up and leave mother's e-mail, when she rudely (I thought), surfed straight off onto a Milanese fashion store. Always thinking about herself.

Mid-afternoon. Mother slipped on a disgusting puddle of Dempsey's sick. The dog is definitely not feeling his usual self, but mother can't afford another round of the vet's extortionate bills. He'll just have to continue being sick a little longer. If it were up to me (which it isn't), I'd stop paying the rent for one week and treat the old mutt.

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 with 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).

Disaster. Dara's leg dropped off, as did her head, then remembered we had a jar of homemade (superglue comes to mind), sticky toffee, in the food pantry.

Blubber's latest career move is what you would call, 'pull the other one.' He's decided on a career in dentistry, but doesn't like blood, spittle, hot breath, or looking up other people's noses, unlike Pompous who looks down, screaming patients, or taking decisions. I reminded him of his responsibilities to his patients. He would have to decide which teeth would require the old heave-ho.

He said he hadn't thought of that. Now he is having second thoughts on a future career in dentistry. He didn't cry.

Dara's iced cake looked great with its two, pink ribbons and blue candles. Couldn't find any pink candles). Persuaded mother to draw a wobbly womb with a baby holding a wobbly cake. Dara will be well wobbly chuffed when she realises it's from me.

Bouboo has confirmed her invitation. Her family is descended directly from a long line of mortuary owners. She describes them as 'the meat houses.'

Bouboo once dated a boyfriend she really liked, until he callously dumped her. He spread false rumours that she was a nose picker. All lies, of course. She'd never do anything so disgusting. Retribution was swift. She persuaded her old man, by means of persuading her mother, to mail the ex-boyfriend a threatening letter followed by an old mouldy, severed finger taken from the mortuary. As a result, the boy's mother nearly died from a heart attack. Fell into a coma for two days.

Thursday 27th November... Dara's Party.

'Brilliant day, brilliant food,' said everyone.

Met up with a number of my delinquent friends, some old, some new, but mostly everyone special in their own, peculiar, unborn ways. You would insist on remembering their mobile numbers and twitter them every day.

Tamsyn Highkicker is the new girl in town and same age as me. Being American, Tamsyn has a wish to be a cheer-leader for the Bucking Broncos.

Maria the Spaniard persuaded her mother to play the castanets and dance the flamenco.

Jonas is a spiritual healer. His father is directly descended from a long line of witch doctors from Koboo Land in Africa. Now he runs a very successful Witch-Doctoring company in the spiritual heart of Soho, I am told. Even our present prime minister and his wife (forget their names), are known to pop their heads in from time to time.

Velmina the Jamaican, likes limbo dancing under her mother's umbilical. Velmina is so experienced; she holds the World Limbo, Umbilical Record for Unborns.

Another friend is a 'blue blood' called... Rollo-Blag, an aristocrat. Rollo's father owns Bohun-Ben Hall, somewhere in the deepest and darkest corner of Devonshire. Americans would jus luv him.

Two others I scarcely know are Lilly the Filly, so named because she prances around in neat circles in the womb with a face shaped like a Lilly, and Dove Melody who sings like a songbird.

Rollo-Blag and Bouboo. What an unlikely match. Only had eyes for one-another (fortunate to have forward positioned, eyes). Rollo-Blag stayed over-night at my house, as did Bouboo. He slept on the settee and Bouboo on a camp bed (their mothers, of course). Camp bed collapsed during the night, waking Bouboo, who suffers with mental stress, not to mention concussion.

Friday 28th November.

Mother suffering a stomach upset. Has eaten a tiny breakfast.

The older Dara becomes, the more drop-dead gorgeous she gets. I think it's the pigtail hairstyle that gets the guys going. It's true, her left eye is seriously trying to catch up with the 'race me if you can' right eye. However, who am I to complain, she's a week older than me. I have all that to come.

Dempsey has decided he wants to stay up late tonight and watch recorded highlights of Crufts. Would I be wide-of-the-mark in seriously thinking he fancied a certain Dalmatian bitch, called Molly, blatantly strutting her stuff?

Mother scolded him because, with all the excitement around, he barked too loud. Poor mutt. I karate-kicked mother in retribution.

I wanted to watch a late night movie called, 'Don't Throttle The Cat, The Dog Will Do,' but Dempsey hogged the remote control, waiting for Crufts.

Mother is snoozing, and my stomach is beginning to rumble. Have not eaten since breakfast. The bitch!

Blubber has bought his first mobile phone and mountain bike. Decided to wrap the wheels in fairy lights for the dark evenings. He's barking mad.

Saturday's weather forecast is for squally showers followed by heavy rain. Think I'll stay in tomorrow.

Saturday 29th November. Rains all day, even in hospital.

It rained today, so we shopped until we nearly dropped.

Bumped into that young, sweet charity worker in the street again. This time, he ran off. Strange lad.

Mother collapsed soon after. When the ambulance arrived, it came with flashing blue lights and screaming siren, but I suppose they know best.

It was so embarrassing, my mother collapsing like that. When she hit the floor with a loud thud, I hit the roof. My head banged this way and that, legs twisting around my neck.

I frowned, I squinted, I raised my eyebrows and nearly pulled out my newly arrived hair, desperately trying to disentangle my legs, and finally, I found time to suck my thumb for reassurance.

Lying flat-out on the only four-wheeled trolley available in hospital, mother's blood pressure plummeted faster than a skydiver heading towards base camp.

Checked my pulse before fainting when a nurse took a blood sample. Came around ten minutes later only to discover a group of starry-eyed, student nurses, peering down at me.

One male student nurse, rubbed cooling gel onto mother's stomach. That was very thoughtful. Another washed her hands thoroughly before using an ultra-sound device on me. Very thoughtful again. These people actually care. Hope mother is taking careful notes.

My day was mostly taken-up with mother complaining about the state of the NHS, demanding to know why the ceiling was leaking.

'Because it's raining cats and dogs,' said matron. Even she frowned. I think the nurses forced a bottle of sleeping tablets down mother's throat that night.

Feel ... drowsy...this is heaven...

Week Sixteen

By the end of this week, I'll be approximately 16 cm long and have a weight hovering around the 120 grams mark.

Legs will grow longer than arms, but don't worry; all my joints and limbs will be mobile, with arms catching up sooner or later.

Fingernails will be completely 'grown-in' and ready to use. My gender can be determined by ultrasound this week.

Sunday 30th November. Late afternoon, but who cares.

Kicked out of Cow Minster Hospital. Nurses refused to put-up (their words) with mother's bad conduct any longer.

She crashed the car on the way home.

Escorted to police station. The majority of the local station's windows were shattered. Maybe it was rioting-police getting out of control that caused such wanton destruction. Overheard an officer complaining of most of his force either off sick, or seriously thinking about handing in their badges.

Mother was 'officially' warned at 6.05pm.

A wintry red sun was setting on the horizon. A case of red sky at night, but definitely not mothers delight.

Desk Officer Madpenny explained to mother the serious trouble she was in, but after an hour of finger-wagging, Madpenny finally smiled and put a comforting arm on mother's shoulder (what's all that about?), and whispered in her ear about the lack of attention to road safety whilst driving a moving vehicle. Mother nodded happily.

Monday. 1st December. Thoughts of Xmas.

This will be my first Christmas. Dara says she'll make me a pair of snowshoes, and thinks throwing snowballs will be fun. I couldn't help but agree, then New Kid decided he wanted to join in. Could do without his interference.

He claimed his hands were more creative than mine. Says he'll make a snowman in my image. I told him to snowball-off down the hill. I think he got the message.

Tuesday. 2nd December.

Today was show-off-your-dog-cat day at our local Dog and Cat Show. The Town Hall holds a show annually.

Dempsey won first prize in the Least Obedient Dog Category. Well done Dempsey. No competition.

I should have persuaded judge Darcey to stamp a life-long ban on Dempsey for what followed next.

What did the crazy mutt do? Only bit a female judge on her jumbo size backside. Resulted in a chain-reaction. From then on, anything that moved was ceremoniously bitten by every cat and dog in the hall.

Rioting broke out. The dog-cat show got suspended. Owners, who should have known better, scratched and clawed each other. Old men threw punches at the judges, with boys and girls wrestling on the floor. It was more confusing than a Christmas pantomime.

Broken noses, snapped ankles, pools of blood, torn clothes, men arrested and women cautioned. Dempsey ought to have been ashamed of himself, even if he was the star-turn. Villain or hero? Depends, I guess, on which side you bark.

Tallulah won first prize in the Best Groomed Cat category. What? She only turned up to keep Dempsey company. Who groomed her anyway? Certainly not mother.

Wednesday. 3rd December. Sink or swim.

Tallulah is basking in glory. Couldn't help herself. She nudged the silver cup (plastic, but painted silver to fool cats) under Dempsey's nose.

Dempsey is now in the doghouse and on a strict, starvation diet. A two-day punishment. I would have specified a week, but Dempsey's large, round and soulful eyes, frequently fool mother, so two days it was.

Late morning. The postman always rings twice. Sang a lovely carol about three wise men, or some rubbish. Gave mother a bill from the Town Hall. Appears she owes £2009 for the willful damage caused by Dempsey. If you ask me, we got off lightly.

Early Afternoon. At the local Swimming Pool. I hate swimming pools. Pregnant women everywhere, splashing about like floundering whales. There are the unborns trying desperately to hang-on to their umbilical-cords for dear life, the badly behaved 2yr olds biding their time until nobody is watching, then endeavouring to drown newly born babies making their swimming debuts.

I swam ten lengths. Wasn't even exhausted, then mother decided to race the woman with the bright, red lipstick and pursed lips. My amniotic swimming pool resembled a sea of foaming froth as I tried to keep up.

Thursday 4th December. Morning.

Today, I accompanied mother to the anti-natal clinic at St. Margaritas Hospital for her precautionary ultra-sound check. This would establish if I was proceeding as planned.

Nurse Lennard looked very young (hope she knows what she's doing). Barely out of nappies herself. She said I was a 'wee bonny lad' and 'everything was where it should be.' Then, nurse Lennard pointed and giggled. 'There, see?' she said, trying to suppress a laugh.

'No I don't.' I said.

'Oh yes,' said mother. 'It's bigger than most, isn't it?'

What's so funny? The NHS shouldn't pay nurses to laugh like that.

Mother mentioned how it was a very common 'thingy' that ran through our paternal family line.

12.01 pm. After the ultra-scan, suddenly mother overdosed on brain cells that missed the boat a long time ago. She remembered she had an appointment with Dr Stephanopoulos. His office was opposite Brer Rabbit children's ward, along Pooh corridor.

Dr Steph, (as mother likes to call him) is half-Greek, half Sicilian (most likely Greek, Mafioso).

We arrived late. I knocked, and then mother knocked. We entered. 'Ah, Miss Summer, nice to see you again.' Again? What's he after?

Dr Steph asked how regularly she was drinking. I decided honesty was the only policy, so I said, 'About four times a week, no, I tell a lie, more like seven, doctor.'

Mother insisted she only drank no more than five times a year, at the most, if she must. I just knew Dr Steph wouldn't be fooled.

His eyebrows arched, but more in annoyance, after all, her past drinking record was no state secret. Looking at all the bottles of drink behind him, nor is his I think.

He knew she knew the truth, and she knew he knew the truth. A stand-off was called for. Mother stood staring at him defiantly, like a teenager, but from under his bushy eyebrows, Dr Steph bared the cynical eyes of an all-knowing parent.

But then his confidence drained quite noticeably. Had he met his match? I think he sensed from her the uncomfortable combination of drink on the breath, and a rising temper. A subtle change of direction was called for. He discovered a diet sheet in his desktop drawer, outlining the rights and wrongs of anti-natal caring.

It was my unborn duty, I believed, to explain to the doctor, the regularity in which mother wires herself to the ceiling; head heavy with drink as she hits the bottle.

I still get bruised, battered and feel bloody miserable in here at times, doctor. But old Stephanopoulos was not listening.

Late evening. Snow falling heavily.

Friday 5th December. Just two clicks off midnight. Sleepwalking.

Mother prefers sleepwalking on a Friday, a little before midnight. Used to be Tuesdays. I prefer Mondays. Get it out of the way, that's what I say.

Tonight, I negotiated a path around chairs and tables, not forgetting Dempsey and Tallulah's scattered toys. Eventually, we made it to the fridge.

A blueberry muffin disappeared down mother's throat, swiftly followed by half a carton of milk. I asked for a pineapple juice. My powers of persuasion failed.

Did haul mother outside for a walk in the deep, snow-carpeted garden; sniffed the crisp, night air; dusted off a layering of powder snow from the bird table where Tallulah was snoring; stared up at the clear, night sky, with spy satellites probably photographing mother. They were no doubt, noting down any change in her sleeping patterns, and finally, we returned to bed. Down to the blueberry muffin repeating on her, we said hello to the toilet, every hour, on the hour.

Saturday 6th December. Morning.

Terrible news. Dara telephoned. Her voice was shaking. She said, 'Rollo-Blag and Bouboo are no more.'

Bouboo and her boyfriend Rollo were killed in a plane crash. She thought the plane came down somewhere in North London. Instinctively, I knew it was the plane I had seen Monday afternoon.

Gently, I persuaded mother to lift up the mobile phone from under a tear, soaked cushion, and telephone Blubber's mother. Blubber had already heard the terrible news, as had Pompous Twit who was crying (that's a first).

Bouboo and Rollo were bosom pals; two happy-go-lucky unborns who were meant for each other. Now, only their memories survive.

Afternoon. The telephone rang. It was Uncle Billy. Would mother visit him and stay for a couple of days down on Ramshackle Farm? If her face could tell a story, it was now. Mother looked horrified. Getting her clothes dirty and smelly on a farm was not her scene, man.

Why was Uncle Billy offering mother an immediate vacation? Here was a sister he hadn't seen in over two years. But the surprises didn't stop there. He offered mother the opportunity in taking possession of his ex-wife's Edwardian, blue diamond, red ruby necklace. Funny really, how the incentive of a glittery object of great value, can transform mother's thinking.

From that moment on, mother showered Uncle Billy with unrestrained praise.

'What a lovely farm you own,' and 'How often do you milk the cows?' and 'Oh, the smell of sweet green grass. I just love watching yellow buttercups snuggling up to the bluebells.'

Evening. 6.00pm. Tallulah has fervently licked her saucer spotless. Waits for seconds. She can wait until the cows come home, as far as I'm concerned. Dempsey thinks, in his doggy-peculiar-smelly-thinking, kind of way, that he's coming to Ramshackle Farm with us. How wrong can a dog be? Dream on.

Evening. 6.05pm. Dempsey jumped into the back of the car. I'm sure he sniggered.

Waved goodbye to Tallulah, praying she'd keep her promise and take good care of the house. Mother wagged her finger at Tallulah, emphasising the trust we were bestowing upon her.

6.09pm. Reversed into the garage door. Mother is deadly dangerous on the accelerator.

7.17pm. Nearly hit an old woman. She was cycling (I'd call it wobbling) along a narrow lane, a good deal too fast for her age, I think.

7.22pm. Hit an old man cycling in a straight line and well within the laws of the English highway. Mother did contemplate stopping, but if we did, he might want to sue us.

Any minute now, I'm expecting a flashing, blue light, loud siren and a bobbing blue, police officer's hat to ruin our day, but thankfully, the plods must have been dozing in their cars.

Uncle Billy and his Ramshackle farm was nowhere to be seen. We were lost, and up a lane without a paddle, or in this case, without in-car navigation.

Started to suck my thumb, then plumped for a finger or two instead.

About to flash-down a passing police car (with flashing, blue light and deafening siren) when Dempsey spotted the entrance to Uncle Billy's farm. He barked.

We sped past the gate. Dented the side of the car.

Almost immediately, Uncle Billy greeted us. A shotgun going off makes such a loud noise, don't you think? He waved it furiously in our direction. His eyes looked dead wild. Even though it was dark, I knew it was a gun, because it flashed, and went BANG.

Uncle demanded to know, 'Who goes there?' but only AFTER he pulled the trigger. We have one headlight now.

After a short argument (nothing unusual), Uncle Billy ushered us into the farmhouse.

He wasted little time in getting down to business. He temptingly wrapped a sparkling, blue diamond, and red ruby necklace, around mother's neck.

What was his game?

Apparently, he says, he's dying of leukaemia. Wants mother to nurse him until he keels over. Must admit, I feel sorry for the old grump now. On the other hand, mother has responsibilities that are more important now, like me. How could she possibly look after two sick invalids? One of us is dying; the other could be born deformed.

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 house. 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.

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. Also 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.

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!

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 days. 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.

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.

12.54 pm. Shaun admitted defeat. This was a very persuasive lady he was up against. We piled into the back of the cab and compressed the large, Nigerian woman, into a corner of the cab. I thought she looked exceptionally elegant in her traditional African costume.

Aunt, in her traditional cockney accent, explained to the woman that when a taxi is spotted in this country, it's the custom to stop it, then traditionally 'pile in.' The Nigerian woman, in her very cut-glass, polished English accent, said that she had lived here for well over twenty-nine years, and never knew that.

1.34 pm. Arrived outside Aunt Nell's Bayswater flat. She pointed to the flat with plant pots on the very top floor. Nearly choked on my amniotic fluid, only a couple of splutters away from drowning. Does she seriously think I'm going to push mother up six floors without an oxygen mask? How does Nell do it?

2.35 pm. Sipping afternoon tea and gulfing down banana sandwiches. Aunt sipped and mother gulped whilst I watched a film on aunt's 56inch, state-of-the-art TV screen.

9.37 pm. In bed listening to police sirens in the distance.

Monday 9th February. Early morning.

Mother is leaning out of the window, peering down at a group of noisy children playing 'catch me if you can.' It's a north-facing window, where colds and pneumonia can be caught. Told mother to close the bloody thing, but of course, she doesn't. Caught sight of people opposite in the rooms of a tourist hotel. Young couple playing cards, old couple arguing, odd couple ... don't really know what they're doing. Children are fighting. One boy falls and breaks an arm. The ambulance arrived half an hour later.

Late Morning. Today is a washout kinda day. Rain, followed by strong winds. Tried to read mother's book about a French detective, as she lies stretched out on the bed.

Afternoon and Evening. Sleep and snore.

Tuesday 10th February.

Mid-Afternoon. London Millennium wheel is very popular with the foreign tourists. We boarded but were followed by a group of fanatical, Japanese students who pressed us hard up against the glass panels. They took photographs of anything that moved, or didn't.

Evening. Played cards with Aunt Nell. Mother quickly disillusioned. Thought aunt would return her stake money after she lost game after game. Midnight chimed. Mother in a deep sleep, but unknown to aunt, I'm still wide awake. Watched Nell creep into our bedroom. Watched her returning mother's stake money under the pillow. Without a whisper of wind daring to disturb the dust on the floor, Aunt Nell quietly returned to her bed.

Wednesday 11th February.

No electricity in flat. Aunt Nell has called-out the local electrician. Promises to be here within two hours. It's so cold in the apartment I think we're all going to freeze to death before the two hours are up.

Late afternoon. Electrician and his mate (who happens to be a girl) turn up five hours late. Aunt Nell is dead furious and has threatened to complain to their boss. The young Polish electrician was so apologetic, but the English girl, no more than eighteen, looked so seriously drippy, she sulked.

Early Evening. An hour passed. The electrician and his mate are still hard at it in the cupboard. 'Hurry up,' I gurgled. I'm getting bored watching mother and Nell playing yet more cards.

Mother decided to ask the electrician and his mate if they required help. Very strange. The cupboard door was jammed tightly shut. Earlier it swung freely. The electrician insisted he wouldn't be too long now. Said that the door couldn't be opened just yet as he and his mate was tightly locked together at a critical point of the operation. We left them to it. Heard a scream. Think the girl must have hurt herself.

Late Evening. The sweaty electrician and his red-faced assistant have finished now. Must have been bloody hot in there.

Thursday 12th February.

Mother telephoned Dara's mother. This gave me the opportunity I'd been waiting for to speak to Dara. Said she didn't mind being woken by me. I told her how cold Aunt Nell's apartment was with no electricity. She thinks I'm very brave.

Friday 13th February.

Visited Madam Tussauds. Hated it. Too scary. The Prime Minister looked too real, so returned to aunt's apartment. Played cards again. Had afternoon tea. Went to sleep.

Saturday 14th February.

After saying our fond farewells to Aunt Nell, we returned home.

There was a valentine card on the mat. 'Who could it be from?' mother kept repeating. How would I know?

The card was cheap, clearly tacky and bright red with a pair of pink hearts, speared together by an arrow. I recognised the scrawled writing. It read: We are just a couple of old tarts and farts, lots of love ...'

No name, but Uncle Billy looked as guilty as sin. Probably thought it was funny.

Week Twenty-Seven

By the end of this week, I'll be 33.5 cm approx in length and probably weigh about 975 grams. I will be increasingly responding to sounds as the ears' network of nerves becomes more fully developed. My limbs are still growing longer and stronger and body fat continues to increase.

Sunday 15th February.

What happened today?

Monday 16th February.

Don't wake me. I'm sleeping off the drink.

Tuesday 17th February.

Finally came round, but experienced a bad, skull-cracking headache.

Wednesday 18th February. Late afternoon.

Slept all day.

Thursday 19th February.

Blubber thinks he has caught a dose of influenza. Says his mother is mixing with the wrong types. Being a nurse, she encounters many drug addicts when they're drying out.

Friday 20th February.

Blubber is dead. Or so he says. His mother has smoked some pot. Blubber wants desperately to abstain from the substance. Said he looked into the bathroom mirror. I asked him what he saw. At first he only recognised himself, but the longer he stared, he said, the more he appeared to multiply and turned rubbery. Said smoking the stuff was like floating out of your skin. He was hallucinating.

Dara's mother also smokes weed. Why do my friends all have potty mothers?

Saturday 21st February.

My swimming pool has become shallower. Has someone pulled the plug?

Week Twenty-Eight

By the end of this week, I'll be approximately 35cm in length and weigh about 1100grams. My brain will grow rapidly, folding over on itself, creating its characteristic ridges as it increases in mass. My eyes will close and open as I sleep and awaken. Officially, this week I'm supposed to be able to dream, but just between you and me, I have been dreaming for some time. Thought to be the result of a highly active brain. Hiccupping is also common during this week of development.

Sunday 22nd February.

Uncle must have been dead drunk when exclaiming he wanted to jump head first out of a plane. I told him quite harshly not to be so bloody silly. Then unexpectantly, I had second thoughts, so kept quiet.

Late Afternoon. Uncle had sobered up by the end of the day and thought sky- diving was a bad idea after all. Too late. Mother had already phoned a friend, and jolly Tristan promised to organise the charity jump.

Monday 23rd February.

Slept fitfully.

Tuesday 24th February.

Slept deeply.

Wednesday 25th February.

Practically fell into a coma.

Thursday 26th February.

Morning. Today is D-Day. Uncle and mother go sky-diving. Weather conditions not good.

Mid-Afternoon. Back on terra firma, the ambulance driver informed us he had never been so stunned in his entire life. Thought we were all mad. He quite rightly (in my expert opinion) refused to believe anyone would skydive in a gale. I stared at mother's broken arm. Serves her right for leaping out of a plane in gale-force winds with me inside her.

Dozy Tristan looked as guilty as sin, sitting in the corner of the ambulance, head tilted back, trying to suppress the blood from his broken nose. He was the 'so-called' expert who insisted it was safe to jump. Mother (with her one good arm) let fly with a right hook. Dear old Tristan never saw it coming.

Uncle Billy was still somewhere in the bushes, all twisted-up in the tangled lines of his parachute.

Friday 27th February.

Uncle barked that he was going to the shops. Sounded bad tempered. 'Good,' cried mother irritably. She shouldn't be so hard on him; after all, it was her idea that he experimented with loop the loop whilst free-falling whilst she called him chicken if he opened his chute before she did. In fact, mother opened her chute first, but I'm keeping mute. Mother should have warned uncle not all chords look identical. If it clearly states, 'do not pull,' then don't pull. Following those simple instructions would've stopped him falling out of his parachute fifty feet off the ground.

Uncle thinks it's time to retire to an old people's home where he'll be appreciated more. 'Good,' shouted my mother. She can be a right bitch sometimes.

Saturday 28th February.

The milkman was late today so mother rang the dairy. They thought mother was over-reacting. Think how many asylum seekers would just love the opportunity to be a milkman.

Week Twenty-Nine

By the end of week 29, I will be approximately 36.5cm in length and probably weigh about 176ograms. My skin will become less wrinkled as layers of fat grow. It's said that if a bright light is shone at the womb, unborns may open their eyes and turn towards the light. Well, that's nothing new to me; I have been doing that for weeks.

Sunday 1st March.

Uncle has slipped a disc, so he says. Excuses I say. He may have been a farmer once-upon-a-time, but around our house, he is definitely work-shy.

Uncle reminded mother of a certain sparkly, diamond necklace in his possession that she adores. She told him firmly where he could stick it. 'Go ahead and flush it down the toilet,' she yelled.

Monday 2nd March.

This morning, the pipes in my head feel clogged. Mother was at the vodka last night.

Tuesday 3rd March.

Dara dealt her mother severe stomach pains. A lesson in the evil of drink whilst pregnant.

Wednesday 4th March.

Feel much better today. Experiencing a wonderful, but unusually clear head. Counted to eleven just to prove I could. Pompous says he can count to twenty-two. Talk about blowing your own trumpet.

Thursday 5th March.

Blubber telephoned. During the night, he decided he wanted to become an astronaut. I told him he was just being plain ridiculous. I explained in simple 'unborn' terms, how dangerous it was being a spaceman, especially if he lost his map or his oxygen tank when deep in space. Said he hadn't thought of that before crying. I told him he wouldn't be able to cry in space because of the lack of gravity, I think. 'Oh,' he said, he hadn't thought of that. Promised him Richard Branson's home number. On hearing that, Blubber cheered up.

Friday 6th March.

A pretty NHS nurse called into our home today. Wanted details from mother of how I was progressing. Mother said she was feeling great and coping well, so the nurse left.

Saturday 7th March.

House burgled again. Think we are jinxed. Soon realised the burglars left empty handed. Like the Police Officer said, 'Nothing worth stealing.' Didn't realise mother's future inheritance (the necklace) was well hidden inside a pillowcase?

Week Thirty

By the end of this week, I'll be approx 38cm long and weigh about 1420 grams. My brain will develop rapidly as the head gets larger. My muscles and lungs continue to develop and mature as my bones become harder.

Sunday 8th March.

Think I have the beginnings of winter flu and the early symptoms of winter depression. Even the odd snowflake fell, and that's depressing. Either it snows or it doesn't, but don't tease.

Monday 9th March.

Pompous Twit has informed all his friends he'll be attending a French language class on Tuesday evenings. Insisted we join to keep him company, but only Blubber committed himself. Didn't like to refuse because Pompous insisted so nicely. That boy is easily manipulated.

Tuesday 10th March.

Today I completed five press-ups on my umbilical until boredom set in. Maybe I'll try ten tomorrow, and the day after, twenty. It's quite possible twenty will be beyond me.

Wednesday 11th March.

Had a 'wish you were here' postcard from my biological dad. Says he's bought an apartment with sea views. Asked mother if she'd like to visit him and his new boyfriend, George, as soon as possible. Why?

Thursday 12th March.

Biological dad telephoned. Said there was a new shipwreck on the beach. Now lives in a pretty seaside village called Slapton Sands in Devon.

Uncle Billy has already read mother's postcard. He insists we go. 'The fresh air will do you good,' he said. Why is uncle trying to get rid of us?

Friday 13th March.

I was aware of my brain expanding today. If it gets any larger, Pompous Twit will become jealous.

Saturday 14th March.

Played chess with Pompous and won. Now Pompous thinks I'm too 'big-head' to be his friend.

Week Thirty-One

By the end of this week, I'll be nearly 39 cm long and weigh about 1585 grams. At this moment, my digestive track and lungs are almost completely developed. The eyes are functioning well, becoming more sensitive to light and stimuli. The brain and nervous system are still developing though. I'm also shedding a thin coat of lanugo hair.

Sunday 15th March.

Decided to book an early holiday with Dara. The Canary Islands look perfect in the brochure. Warm weather, clear water, what more could an unborn ask for? Well, the co-operation from the adults would be nice.

Monday 16th March.

Problem with being an unborn is one never gets to celebrate anniversaries.

Blubber has decided he wants to become a steam-engine railway driver. I told him to forget it. 'They died out years ago,' I said. I should have kept mute because he says he can't take the pressure of always being told he shouldn't do things in life. Maybe he has a valid point.

Tuesday 17th March. St. Patrick's Day.

Five drunks are staggering down our street. They're Irish. How do I know? Because they're drinking Guinness and swearing poetically.

Wednesday 18th March.

Tallulah has run off with one of uncle's chickens. They're not in love, but the chicken was destined for mother's dinner plate tonight. Now it's chicken drumsticks out of the freezer, and greasy fingers. Just wait until I get my hands on that cat.

Thursday 19th March.

Tallulah has returned, but looking exceptionally guilty. Brought back a present jammed tightly in her mouth. It was the skeletal-cage of a cleanly picked chicken. Dempsey took it upon himself to chase Tallulah all day as punishment and to also get back into mother's good books.

Friday 20th March.

The postman arrived early this morning. Dempsey was slow off the mark. Usually he's waiting to 'collect' the post and hand it to mother, crunched and wet.

Mother opened a pretty, pink envelope. It was from father. Said he was sending her a special something.

Inside, and folded very neatly, was a green and redundant, one-pound note. Mother was understandably furious until she noticed a slip of paper fall out.

It was a cheque. £5000! Now mother thinks he's wonderful.

Will be treating herself to a manicure and facial no doubt. Uncle wants a small fishing boat.

Mother has tears in her eyes because Uncle Billy is dangling her future inheritance in front of her, namely, the necklace. Uncle and mother row.

Saturday 21st March.

The long running, non-violent row has ended in mother's favour. She reminded uncle whose house they were living in, and more importantly, who was paying the bills.

Week Thirty-Two

By the end of this week, I will be approx 40cm in length and weigh, give or take a few grams, 1750. My limbs become proportionate to the rest of my body as it fills out, increasingly resembling a newborn. My pupils will constrict in response to light shining into the eyes. The unborn will pass water through its bladder, which will be replaced by urine after birth. So now you know.

Sunday 22nd March.

New Kid at the Police Station helping them with enquires. Apparently, his delinquent mother was being charged with stealing a sports car.

The theft would be New Kid's idea but his mother will experience the grief. He's expecting me to bail him. What with? I've never had a penny to my name. A thought has just occurred. Mother's £5000.

Should I bail New Kid out? Why should I? Might do a runner, then we forfeit the £5000. After all, he is no friend of mine. We hate each other.

Okay, I will try and persuade mother to do the proper thing.

Monday 23rd March.

New Kid's mother was ever so grateful, but New Kid wasn't interested in demonstrating gratitude. Wanted to know why I waited half a day before persuading my mother to pay up. Some kids are so ungrateful.

Tuesday 24th March.

Mother and I have an appointment at the hospital. Arrived late. The waiting area smelled of disinfectant and was jammed packed with pregnant mothers. Spotted Dara four rows in front. She was sucking her thumb. Comedy Pete was also there. Comedy Pete is an unborn of 33 weeks.

Mothers were waiting to be lectured on the finer details of pre-natal, post-natal and the highs and lows of motherhood.

Comedy Pete was well into his routine. Unborns that could laugh were splitting their sides. One twenty-six week old was very close to spitting his sides, quite literally. He was in serious danger of rupturing his newly assembled laughter muscles. Comedy Pete eventually finished with six minutes of applause.

Wednesday 25th March.

Not feeling too well. My mouth feels as if it's puffed on forty, high-tar cigarettes. Tried shouting at mother but my throat was too sore and husky. A little sympathy would have gone down well, but sympathy is alien for mother to comprehend.

Hope Dara will visit me soon.

Wednesday late evening.

Dara calls but miserably fails to cheer me up.

Thursday 26th March.

My true love visits again. Breakthrough. This time Dara succeeds in making me laugh at her jokes (think I'll take up acting).

Friday 27th March.

Read 'Around The World In Eighty Days' whilst initiating my gradual recovery. Mother turns the pages far too quickly. I'm still learning to read.

Saturday 28th March.

Pompous Twit asked me to attend choir evenings with him. I said I would seriously think about it, but really, I'm trying to find an excuse not to.

Week Thirty-Three

By the end of this week, I'll be about 41cm in length and weigh around the 1915 grams. I'll also be putting on weight very quickly from now. Most unborns gain half their birth weight in the next seven weeks before birth. We also develop regular REM and non-REM sleep patterns. It's believed, that in the world beyond the womb, unborns are more aware of the 'goings on' outside and respond to external stimuli. Of course, we unborns know differently. These 'goings on' in the outside world is nothing new to us.

Sunday 29th March.

Today is Mothering Sunday for millions of mothers, except mine. She looks depressed. Must wait another year before her first Mother's Day card from me, and even then, I might not be with it.

Evening. We lay down on the sofa to watch a DVD titled 'Mother's Day,' but failed to spot the 18 certificate stamped on the cover. A blood and gore video, and I'm under age.

Monday 30th March.

Sick all night, sick all day.

Tuesday 31st March.

Sick all night, sick most of the day, but getting better.

Wednesday 1st April.

I'm feeling better. April Fool mother. I'm going to be sick again.

Knew I was under age, and still she forced me to watch that gory DVD.

Pompous Twit's mum made a house call, wishing my mother a speedy recovery. Pompous Twit alleged he had a week to live. A deadly heart condition, he said. I told him to grow up. 'All Fools day only lasts up until 12 o'clock mid-day' I reminded him. It's very disconcerting Pompous being so humorous. He admitted it was very unlike him, but wanted to experience the feeling.

Our local paper said the end of the world was near, but that is just another silly April fool trick, so mother says. I'm not so sure.

Thursday 2nd April.

Dara's mother bought mine a bouquet of flowers. Dara said it took much persuading on her part.

Friday 3rd April.

Decision day is looming. Must inform my friends the exact day and week I'll be vacating my cosy, padded cell. Monday is certainly out of the question. That's my Monday Morning Blues day. Tuesday is a possibility, but Wednesday should be the scene-stealer. I just love Wednesdays. It's the day my energy levels are topped up.

If I had some personal belongings to pack, I would pack my toothbrush, flannel and towel, my slippers, shower gel ... after all, I want to look spic n' span when I check out. Some unborns think it's cool to emerge ungroomed, but not I.

Saturday 4th April.

Severe indigestion all day. Must be the jumbo size, chocolate bar mother had with two cups of strong coffee. I hate coffee; makes my heart think it's a drum kit.

Week Thirty-Four

By the end of this week, I will be approximately 42cm in length and weigh around the 2080 grams mark. I'll continue to gain fat but will it'll cause extensive cramping in here. In order to prepare for birth, I will be turning upside down. My bones continue to harden, and the skin becomes less wrinkled and red as time goes by.

Sunday 5th April.

Had a very bizarre call from New Kid's mother. Will mother meet her at the nearby Docks? Why? I wonder.

Why must pregnant women act so eccentric leading up to birth?

Before I had time to ask questions, New Kid's mother hung up.

We were to meet her on Pier 4, at 7 o'clock tonight.

Maybe we're being treated to an around-the-world cruise.

7.05 pm on a blustery cold evening. Kidnapped. We were thrown into the boot of a car smelling of rotten fish.

Smashed my head heavily against my cell wall. Thought I was going to die. Mother knocked unconscious. Could hear New Kid whistling in the background. Car moving.

Thud...

Falling...

A loud splash...

Car filling with seawater. So cold.

Yelled at mother to wake up, and then kicked her. Thankfully it worked.

Mother kicked the car boot open. My hero again.

New Kid, and his partner in crime, had scarpered.

A passing police constable insisted we made a statement. This was definitely mother's moment in the limelight. She insisted she had absolutely no idea who the perpetrators were. The policewoman taking down our particulars looked at her doubtfully.

New Kid was sure to try again, I was certain.

12.06 am. Finally crawled under mother's duvet. Tallulah had thoughtfully kept it warm.

Finally succumbed to sleep.

Monday 6th April.

My angry mother telephoned New Kid's mother. No reply.

Tuesday 7th April.

Again mother telephoned, and again no reply.

Wednesday 8th April.

Arrived home after shopping. A call was left on our answer-phone. Mother returned call. Again, no answer.

Thursday 9th April.

Success. New Kid's mother couldn't be more apologetic. Said she had no idea what came over her. 'I do,' I shouted. Her pleas for forgiveness were pathetic. As if we would agree not to involve the police. Huh.

Mother agreed to hush the whole thing up. They made-up. How could they? We nearly drowned because of that woman and her nutty, delinquent unborn son.

Friday 10th April.

WPC Loveless and her sidekick, Verity Dogood, a 16 year old girl dressed up in police fancy dress. Think they call them Police Community Support Officers. They very kindly knocked on our front door, enquiring whether mother had fully recovered from her near-fatal drowning incident. I said no. Again, mother insisted she had no idea who was behind the crime. Verity yawned as she busily texted her boyfriend.

Saturday 11th April.

Odd. Feels like my pool is contaminated with salt water. Uncle believes mother is a hero. He promises her a surprise, then disappears. When he finally reappeared, he was clutching the sparkly necklace. Slipped it around mother's neck.

On an average day in my life, I would have lovingly and caringly throttled her with it, but she was my hero, for now.

Week Thirty-Five

By the end of this week, I'll be approximately 43.5cm in length and weigh around 2250 grams. My lungs are nearly developed and I continue to grow rounder as the layer of fat, which keeps me warm, grows thicker.

Sunday 12th April.

Dara not at home.

Monday 13th April.

Dara telephoned and blew kisses.

Tuesday 14th April.

Decided to give head a rest and think of nothing.

Wednesday 15th April.

Decided to turn upside down to practice birthing procedure. Not long to go now.

Thursday 16th April.

Unwell. Nerves I think.

Friday 17th April. Good Friday.

Feeling better today. Uncle says there are new aliens in the corner grocery shop. I told him he was being juvenile. There are no such things as aliens. I know he loves his Doctor Who and repeats of the X Files. Mother said, 'Is there?' before falling asleep on the sofa.

Saturday 18th April.

Mother made a trip to the grocery shop. Didn't notice any suspicious, green eyed, grey rubber-bodied aliens. Uncle is barking mad.

I asked the new owners, George and Annie Patel if they had witnessed any aliens in their store. I was ignored as usual, but an eight week old unborn (doing press-ups) inside Annie Patel, said the only aliens he'd seen were the British National Party daubing paint on their shop window. I wondered if that was the 'aliens' uncle meant.

Inside the Patel shop, no aliens then. Mother bought a packet of prawn-crackers and Mrs Patel said, 'Please try my homemade Poppadoms,' so we did.

At home, mother told Uncle Billy there weren't aliens in the Patel shop.

Mother and uncle had an argument. It lasted over 2 hours. Mother told uncle to grow up. He was 'living in the past,' she said, then called him a racist.

Week Thirty-Six

By the end of this week, I'll be approximately 45 cm long and weigh about 2420 grams. Mother's abdomen will stretch and become thinner to accommodate me, that's because I'm nearly fully-grown. Officially, I will respond to the outside world of light and dark and develop a daily routine of my own. I did that ages ago. My kidneys and liver are now fully developed, allowing me to process some waste products.

Sunday 19th April. Easter Sunday.

Uncle cooked me a lovely Easter Sunday beef stew. The dumplings looked yummy, but not too sure on the fine, straggly hairs in the liquid stew.

Monday 20th April. Bank Holiday.

Dempsey finished off mother's Easter egg. Mother is definitely not pleased.

Tuesday 21st April.

Mother reclining on the sofa feeling sorry for herself, complaining of backache.

Wednesday 22nd April.

Uncle is dead. Mother stuck a knife in his back. That was my perfect dream last night. When I woke, I was relieved it was only in my head (not the knife).

Thursday 23rd April. St. Georges Day.

Uncle has asked if he can be present at the birth. I said, 'No way Uncle,' but mother said she'd think about it.

Friday 24th April.

Uncle has bought a camcorder. Why?

Saturday 25th April.

New Kid's mother sent a bunch of twelve red roses. For once in her life, my mother did the right thing. She mailed them straight back, minus postage.

Week Thirty-Seven

By the end of this week, I'll be approx 46.5 cm in length and weigh around 2660 grams. I will be round and chubby, gaining about 38 grams per day. I will lose my lanugo hair, except on the shoulders and back and my toenails will have reached the tips of the toes.

Sunday 26th April.

Undertaking practice runs around my cell this morning because when the padlock to my cell is unlocked, I'll be making a 'prison break.' Very tiring, but end benefits will be worthwhile.

Dara says she practices 'womb vacating' every afternoon. Didn't realise she was so focused. Would be a disaster if I messed up when the big day arrives.

Monday 27th April.

Limbs are aching. Probably over exercised.

Tuesday 28th April.

Feeling nauseous today. Have no inclination to go shopping with mother this morning, but I'm powerless in the matter.

Wednesday 29th April.

Sick all day yesterday, but much better today. Mother suffered acute stomach inflammation. Probably eaten something past its sell-by-date. A miracle if I escape from my cell in healthy order.

Thursday 30th April.

Mother looked in the morning mirror of the bathroom. Thinks she looks fat, and for once, I agreed. 'Of course you're fat,' I told her, 'You've got me.'

After I'm born, I just pray she doesn't get post-natal depression. I couldn't put up with all that personal pain.

Friday 1st May.

A postcard delivered this morning was from dad. Barely decipherable, but said he was happy as Larry. Must be his latest squeeze ... err...boyfriends name.

Saturday 2nd May.

Mother has bought two goldfish for Tallulah. The cat can now watch the fish swim around and around in monotonous circles. Tallulah loves things that revolve. Thinks the washing machine is better than TV.

Week Thirty-Eight

I will be approx 48cm in length by the end of this week and 2900grams. If I was born now, I would be considered full term. My head will move into the pelvic cavity, which sounds very painful for me. This will allow extra space for continued growth of the legs and buttocks. The waxy vernix coating is almost completely gone, just enough remaining to help lubricate me during the birth process. I will actually swallow some of the shed vernix and lanugo, which is now in my bowels and will be excreted after birth. I'll also have creases on my heels this week, a sure sign of maturity.

Sunday 3rd May.

Dempsey has eaten Tallulah's pet fish. Tallulah is furious.

Monday 4th May.

Instructions downloaded at 11.56am. Instructed to maneuver 180 degrees, head first into the pelvic cavity, but warned could be stressful and claustrophobic.

Tuesday 5th May.

Good wishes flood in from my unborn friends. So far, the postman has delivered six bunches of white roses to our house, but he's not happy. Keeps pricking his fingers on the thorns.

Uncle Billy went shopping. Brought back a second-hand cot from auction. Well, I guess it's the thought that counts.

Wednesday 6th May.

Being upside down is a bloody pain in the back. Reminds me of what astronauts must put up with.

Thursday 7th May. 10.34am.

The internal-rolling-news-wire has informed me I will retain complete control over my birthing timetable. Think that means I can make immediate preparations to depart. Where's the ignition key.

10.42am. News bulletin. Just my luck. Appears the longer I stay put, the healthier I become. Guess being holed-up in my cell a little longer can't hurt.

Friday 8th May.

My aching back is marginally better today.

Saturday 9th May.

Dara says an unborn called Daniel died by umbilical strangulation yesterday as his mother gave birth. The mother is suicidal.

Thanks Dara, just what I needed to hear. Hope my mother doesn't get suicidal whilst I'm waiting for the exit-visa. That would really blow our relationship sky high.

Week Thirty-Nine

By the end of this week, I'll be approx 49cm long and weigh about 3075 grams. Lungs are the last organs to reach a state of total maturity. Will probably require a few hours to establish regular breathing patterns after birth.

Sunday 10th May. Late afternoon. 5.36 pm.

Problems, problems. Mother, New Kid, his mother, and I are mentally shattered, not to mention physically battered, as we lie in Little Brown Bear Ward at Cow Minster Hospital.

Earlier this morning. Anton arrived back in England from Chamonix. The three of us took a drive in the countryside. Anton said he had something important to tell mother, but guess who was walking across a muddy field? Only New Kid and his mother. Come to think of it, she looked a little disorientated. Think New Kid had rotted her brain over the months. Against our protestations, Anton decided he couldn't leave her in such a desperate state. Very noble. 'Yes we can,' I said.

Whilst driving back home, I was arguing with New Kid as usual, when it happened. The car skidded off the road. The road was wet but Anton tried undertaking a tight corner at speed in his rented Citroen 2CV. I can still remember the sound of the screaming engine.

Next moment, Anton cursed, mother stopped talking, and I swore.

This was my slow motion, terror movie. We got the girl, we got the psychotic lunatics, and now we have the killer. The only thing missing was the popcorn.

I remember looping the loop three or four times before catapulting through the air and ending head-over-heels, upside down.

Peace at last. No noise, except for the hissing of steam escaping from the radiator. Oh yes, nearly forgot, the unforgettable drip, drip, dripping from the fuel tank.

Only chance of escaping from the imminent inferno was to push, punch or kick our mothers' out of unconsciousness. Anton had already scuttled off out of the car.

I kicked mother hard but New Kid kicked harder. He's a week older. We hollered and screamed for attention, but it was useless.

For our last trick, we screeched, scratched and clawed the sides of our padded cells until our mothers' regained consciousness. Both mothers kicked at the doors until they gave way and we rolled out, mothers imitating two beached whales, bouncing down the grassy slope. It was like being tossed and turned inside a washing machine.

Moments later, like all good disaster movies, the car exploded.

The medical staff at Cow Minster Hospital were brilliant. Checked us thoroughly, top to bottom for the slightest signs of injury.

Anton was the first to check out. He made his excuses and left. Had a date to keep, he said.

Sixth sense told me we wouldn't be crossing paths again. I say good riddance. He could have killed us all. A nurse took blood samples from mother.

Monday 11th May. 9.37 am.

A Dr Georghi Vasalov pranced into the ward as if he was high on something illegal. Checked our medical records. New ones, old ones and very (I didn't know they existed) ancient ones. Dr Vasalov signed us out.

10.32 am. The taxi drew up outside Dusty George, the dustman's house, two blocks away.

Mother chastised the driver for parking in the wrong road.

When we arrived home, mother found a hand-delivered letter waiting on the doormat. Inside, Anton explained how my mother was a very special lady (we all appreciate jokes, but...). Explained how she possessed this remarkable personality, but said he couldn't hold back his feelings any longer. He was in love with a ski-chalet girl he met in Chamonix. They were to be married next week. His final words were, 'Hope you understand.' Mum cried her little heart out, bless her, but the bed sheets were getting wet and so was I.

Tuesday 12th May.

Another envelope plonked through our letterbox. Mother left it for Tallulah or Dempsey to open.

Wednesday 13th May.

Sunny most of the day, so the forecast was wrong. I think weather forecasters should pay a fine per mistake.

Oh yes, New Kid vacated his premises today. I'll say no more on the matter.

Thursday 14th May.

Rained all day. Finally, the forecasters got it right.

Friday 15th May.

Mother sent Dara's mother a good luck card wishing her well with the birth.

Late evening. 10.57pm. My first love finally waved her last goodbye to the home she has grown up in, played in, slept in and screamed in for the past nine months.

At 9.35pm, she completed her final touchdown, crying, 'hello brave new world,' before crashing headlong into the hands of the waiting midwife.

At 9.52pm, Dara influenced her mother to make an urgent telephone call. I was the first on the list. Dara says the great soul-searching secret to relaxation when being born is... LET MOTHER DO ALL THE DONKEYWORK.

Saturday 16th May.

Today we were mugged OUTSIDE OUR HOUSE! Bloody cheek. This brought on mother's labour pains. 'Mugger' looked petrified, apologised, then scampered off down the road.

This experience is unique for me. Getting mugged has seriously shaken my confidence, asking the question, 'Will I be mentally and physically fit to be born?' What if my heart suddenly stopped because of stress? Then I remembered what my girl said. Relax.

Week Forty

I'm approx 50 cm in length, weighing about 3250 grams and totally full-term. The amniotic fluid has become cloudy because of the residue from the vernix and the layers of shed skin, as new skin grows-in underneath.

Sunday 17th May.

Today will be my birthday. I felt like shouting, 'please release me.'

At 10.02am, I arrived at hospital (didn't fancy a home birth), and by 11.00am, I was waiting impatiently to be born, to enter the outside world of light, filling my lungs with the sweet smell of fresh air.

At 11.10am, grandparents arrived with uncle. Both men argued whose camcorder had the better gadgets.

At 11.14am, I became bored with waiting, so downloaded vital information on birthing techniques, IVF treatment, the storing and freezing of eggs, infertile couples, and dead foetuses. Relieved my mother is not infertile.

Head beginning to experience wooziness. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear (am I dreaming?) Operations Control giving-out their final instructions and confirming launch will be T-minus thirty-one seconds and seriously counting. All systems appear desperate but on automatic.

Switching to online audio.

Operations Control Room.

'This is a last check for a go, no go, Baby One ejection. Come-in operations manager.'

'Baby One is go.'

'Come in flight dynamics.'

'Flight dynamics go.'

'Baby One, are you go?'

That's me they're talking to. 'Yes, I am go, Operations Control.'

'Systems?'

'Systems go.'

'Take off platform?'

'Platform go.'

'Creation Centre, we have a go for baby one ejection. Instructions sent to Baby One. T-minus ten seconds 9,8,7,6 ..... We have gone for main engine thrust ... 3, 2, 1 zero and lift off. Baby now clearing tower. Good luck Baby One.'

I feel a little nostalgic to be honest, watching my padded cell disappearing far behind. Ten seconds into flight and beginning to throttle-up.

Temperature rising, baby sweating. Depth now five, yes five centimetres. All flight systems are go. I sense no vibrations, leaks or flashing reds. Baby One (me) has been given green continue.

Crashing through sound barrier for unborns and committed to canal travel. G-forces building and baby rattling. Experiencing full thrust. Depth recorded at eight centimetres. Good job it's only mother who has false teeth!

11.21am. My baby blues has unexpectedly exploded and just hit the ceiling. Just realised something extraordinary frightening.

I've been betrayed. Led up the garden path where only tall, dangerous weeds grow.

Must make a serious decision.

Decision made. Re-booking re-entry time. Inhaling atmosphere on the outside world must wait a little longer. One hour and forty minutes should be enough time to digest what my baby blues is shouting.

11.22am. Operations control room contacted. I'm being throttled back abruptly. Wind brakes at maximum, vibrations and G-forces severe. Main engine cut-off will interact in six seconds ... 3, 2, 1. Cut off completed. Now in free fall. Delivery delayed.

11.24 am. Don't get it into your head I'm suffering from a severe bout of shyness, but over the last few moments, I've put two and two together, and the answer didn't come out as four.

This woman I'm supposed to have bonded with over the past forty weeks, even calling her mother, is an IMPOSTOR, A BARBARIAN!

Feels like a pit-full of vipers have just struck at my heart.

Yesterday, the telephone rang. It was my grandfather wanting to know who the lucky prize-winners were to witness my birth. Oh, and he also wanted to borrow a camcorder to film my birth. I had reservations.

I had been watching a scary movie, 'The Bloody Butcher of St.Trinians,' when I heard the words 'dead,' and 'aborted,' and 'eggs.'

Of course. I'm in fact the product of a displaced egg. My true mother never existed. In fact, she was just a dead foetus. Who would want to be told their mother was an aborted baby? I thought body snatching was outlawed?

Let me explain the highs and lows (well, all lows in fact) of body snatching (or egg snatching).

First procedure is to plunder a ready made-to-order corpse (foetus, my unborn mother). Method ... remove ovarian follicles from its ovary (foetus, my mother). Now, resist from frying, poaching or scrambling. Tissue can be kept alive for weeks in the correct chemical cultures. Eventually, the ovarian follicles will mature and release eggs. Deep store eggs in liquid nitrogen and hold in limbo until ready for use.

So you want a baby do you? Okay, thaw eggs, make fertile with 'anonymous' (don't bet on it.) donated sperm and implant into recipient female. Hey presto, before you can say the alphabet backwards in Cockney or Queens English, you get something like me (in fact this woman did get me). What could be simpler? At least adopted children have the chance to discover their true biological mothers. Who do I get to trace? The only relationship I have with this woman is that she's my microwave mother. Pop me in, watch me bake, and 'voila,' pop me out again in nine months (I know, it's a slow microwave). When I'm older, I'll sue her. Nowadays you can do things like that.

11.32 am. Oops. We have a problem. What problem? Appears my facts are more twisted than Tallulah chasing a ball of wool downstairs.

Just received the latest news from hot-off-the-press. Appears I'm not after all the product of a dead foetus. Hoorah! Maybe yesterday's scary movie affected my reasoning, downloading too much info on IVF treatments. Guess you could say my imagination over-heated a little.

11.35am. Engines re-igniting. Will hit the atmosphere running. Attention, attention. Clear flight path debris. This Baby One arriving late, but unquestionably relieved.

Main engine burn, ten seconds to birth. ...8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1.

11.39am. Touchdown...

11.39 and 20 seconds. Experiencing unnatural spasms of pain due to searing, blinding light. My eyes are burning.

Re-start engine and rotate me 180 degrees. I want to return to the safety of my cell, but deep down, I know very well my future lies in front of me, not behind.

Took a deep lungful of 'air,' but gagged. Too nauseating.

But no going back. Contract already signed and sealed.

11.42am. Funny, but you do get used to this whiffy air after a while.

11.44am. Granddad has his head stuck down the sink for some reason but Uncle is still filming.

11.56am. Final communiqué received from Operations Control.

'Baby One has left the premises and undertaken its first lungful of air. The birthing team at Operations Control wish mother and baby a healthy and long life. This is Operations Control Centre over and finally out ............'

