The Absurd Secret Diary Of An Unborn Baby

T

he 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.