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The unexpected arrival of an Alien is something I often dreamt about but never in a toilet let alone a disabled one and yet, a few years ago I did just that…
While valiantly trying to hold onto my sanity in a job I hated, Pete a robot made of Lyrca appeared on the pages of my laptop, setting off the hand drier in the disabled toilet of an Edinburgh cafe.
I was sitting in my hubby’s family restaurant at the time chuckling at the idea-writing asif my life depended on it.
The restaurant was busy and after thrusting a few misshaped pakora my way along with a large glass of house red my hubby left me to write and chuckle.
I don’t know whether it was the badly-behaved twins creating havoc in the toilet, or the “I am in the John!” squeal from an elderly gent when they barged in on him mid pee, but somehow toilets seemed funny that night and I was inspired.
Before I knew it, Woody had entered my writing coerced by a Battenburg to help.
Woody a dwarf with a sweet tooth is the only one who could slip into the toilet window being that the door was blocked by a semi-conscious Lyrca robot and the café owner was desperate to clear the area.
It was a laugh a minute writing session that kept me absorbed while my hubby dispensed with the runaway twins and placated the elderly gent.
Finally finished, my glass drained, my scene with a title I caught my hubbies’ eye as he appeared from the toilet brandishing a mop and several worse for wear toilet rolls.
He said little but skirted about the restaurant clearing up the trail of destruction-care of the twins. The tables were empty apart from a couple who look like they had been together long enough to argue over the TV remote and the position of a toilet seat.
I toyed with my empty glass hoping for a refill-to celebrate like.
Hubby asked me “what was so funny.”
“An entrance,” I said too pleased with my wit to register his disinterest. “but not as you’d know it.”
“I was just moping the toilet; not making an entrance.” Said Hubby with one of his “how many glasses of red have you had” look.
“I’m talking of a scene,” I said “for my book,” I gestured to my laptop “if I don’t find it funny how can my readers?’
The female looked up from her madras “you’re a writer?”
Her partner told her to “shut it.” “I’m only asking,” she hissed “nothing wrong with asking is there?
She flashed me a sisterhood smile. “I don’t mind you asking’ Isaid. “In fact, I can read you some. It’s set in a disable John.”
“John? Who’s John?” said Hubby.
“John is what Americans call the toilet.” I said “it’s a funny play on words.”
The couple looked about as interested as Hubby was in my writing, being that neither thought the word John was funny, but I couldn’t help myself I just had to read.
The couple disappeared to the pub next door and by the time I got to the “Battenburg seduction,” I’d lost my hubby to the cricket.
I stared at him glazed over his mobile phone, he looked up.
“You not listening, are you?” I said.
He nodded “Battenburg?”
“Well yes,” I muttered but there is a little more than that.
He laughed.“Battenburg a cake but not as we know it?’
A short story for all you women who survived having a baby.
For you men who wondered why the woman you loved turned into a banshee when having a baby.
And for all you contemplating a baby-maybe you’ll think twice.
A stich in time saves bugger all.
“I hear you’re a bellydancer.” Said the Consultant. “Been doing it long?’
“Ten years.” I muttered closing my legs.
He covered me up with a tap on my knee, “that explains it.”
“What?”
“You got the hips that expand like a snake’s jaw,” he laughed “you could swallow a car.”
The doctor chuckled, as I glared at him with my best is that so supposed to be funny? Look.
My fanny had had more viewings than a house action-with instrument that would scare a masochist and I was supposed to enjoy a stupid joke?
“Car,” I said with an angry tug at my sheet, “and what size we talking of-mini-four wheel drive-limo?”
The doctor flicked his gloves from his hand and tossed them in the bin, “Sense of humour very good,” he smiled muttering something about my ability to close like a clam.
I was in the middle of a large birth room with a door that swung open at a whisper of a wind with fog-horn voice doctor shouting out the size of my pelvis that I sure even the cafe across the road could hear.
I glared as the consultant lather his hands under the tap, pulled a towel from the holder and without looking at me continued on about dilations and the like. The two nurses nodded while the teenage looking students took notes. They didn’t look old enough to watch a porn film let alone, handle a dilator.
According to the nurse he-the consultant was eccentric and I was to take any so called joke with a pinch of ‘whatever’. It was one of the first things she said when I arrived along with “get undress”; “put this on” and “we need a specimen”.
“A while yet,” he muttered to the older nurse.
I watched him leave his white coat flowing like a cap crusader, his porn virgins following.
“Snake jaw,” I said “what sort of friggin bed side manner is that?”
“He’s Polish,” said the older nurse, like somehow that explained something.
“Polish?” I muttered. “What that got to do with car parking?”
“He always talks about cars” muttered the younger nurse.
The older nurse smoothed down my sheet. “But he is the best, honestly if I was having a baby he’s the man I’d want.”
She looked at the younger nurse. “His episiotomy’s are talked about for months.”
“Seamless.” Said the younger nurse.
I gulped “cuts… down there?”
“But don’t panic,” the older nurse patted my arm. “He hardly does them.”
“He’s more a cesarian guy, very safe.” Said the younger nurse.
I looked at Steven who had just entered “caesarian?” I yelped. ‘But I did yoga and breathing.”
“Honey you have the best, he’s very good, parking cars is just his way of lightening the mood.”
“Parking cars?” Steven looked at me confused.
“Mood lightening?” I turned Steven. “Apparently talking about my bits like it’s a garage will have me laughing though my labour.”
“It’s to take your mind off things.” Said Steven with an “is she ok” look at the nurse.
“Take my mind of things? That’s like saying hit you head against the wall and you won’t feel any the pain when they cut your pera-fucking-neum.”
“Lets just leave the perineum out of it.” Muttered Steven.
I let out a manic laugh that even I didn’t recognise, my moods were see sawing all over the place.
“My mother’s been going on about my peraniumfor months in fact ever since I told her I was pregnant.” I joked.
Steven rolled his eyes. “She mentioned it a few times.”
“ ‘Olive oil and rubbing’ she says, “will keep you like a virgin.”
Steven threw look at the older nurse. “She never said that, your mum doesn’t believe in virgins.”
“Steven hasn’t fried anything for weeks.” I laughed again and then burst into tears. ‘My mother’s put him off olive oil for life.’
Steven looked from one nurse to another mumbling something about medication.
“Medication? That’s you answer to everything.” I snapped.
“Well…it might help, the breathing certainly isn’t.”
“Well you not trying to push out a toe truck though a pin hole are you?” I snapped.
“Perhaps it time for some more medication.” Muttered the older nurse.
Hours ago, excited, happy and enthusiastic for a deliciously simple natural birth I had been whipped into a labour room and given a gown the size of a napkin which hardly covered my breast.
‘Is this for nose blowing,” I laughed.
The nurse, a young woman who was bustling in the corner with instruments laughed out loud, “no dignity in this place.” She said.
“It like a dolls dress,” I said, causing more giggles, until the older nurse entered.
“Having babies is no laughing matter,” she said to me “it’s serious.”
She eyed me, perched on a bedpan like buoy in the water. “You done anything in that pan yet?”
I mention something about waiting for everyone to leave, sending a series of tuts from the older nurse.
Apparently I had the consultant of all consultants and should be poised for inspection like a cow waiting for an insemination.
“You lucky he’s on tonight.” She added before leaving.
The door swung open I stared into the corridor grateful it was empty, perched on a bedpan is not something you want anyone to see.
****
When I discovered I was pregnant I was so excited, so happy. Steven had brought a pregnancy test, and as we looked at the blue marker he cried. We had wanted a baby for so long.
I prepared myself for my birth with yoga moves, bellydancing and birth classes rubbing oil on bits and pieces while visualising me glowing, with a baby in my arms ,Steven beside me, and whale music in the background.
Nothing is funny when you are having a baby, no one tells you how scared you become, how despite the whole world and it dog is in the room with you, you are on your own. And no matter how many hold you hand, rub your back and tell you “you’re doing great” you are scared, petrified that along with the baby, all you innards are going to burst out onto the table, the floor and even the walls and you’ll never able to shit on your own again.
When my daughter arrived Steven punched the air like a football player kissed me a thousand times and then punched the air again.
Emiliana Hall-Upsplash
I felt nothing but a huge desire to sleep and was just in the process of doing so when I felt a burning poker sear into the flesh somewhere down below.
I jolted.
My legs were spread out like a dissected frog, the consultant was playing cross stitch with my bits below while my daughter was being attended to under a chorus of “she’s lovely”, “she’s beautiful”, and “so like her dad”.
“Keep still.” Snapped a male voice.
I did my best gritting my teeth with each tug as Steven told the world and my mother that our baby girl was apparently the image of him.
“Yes all fingers and toes,” he laughed, “And Sheryl? Yes she fine, waiting for her tea and toast.”
When it was over I, sipping the best tea I had ever taste in my life cracked a joke about tapestry and how my husband would appreciate the artistic display next time he was “down there.”
The consultant flicked off his gloves and moved to the sink. I was just about to sink my teeth into my toast when he without looking up said “Don’t I know you?”
I looked at nurses then Steven, Know me? I mouthed The only thing he’s seen is my fanny.
“Don’t worry,” said the young nurse. ‘He says that to all the girls.”
“His Polish,” added the older nurse.
If you enjoyed my story there are plenty more; subscribed to my newsletter and get a free story into the bargain…
When
people ask Beryl how it all began, Beryl says little until after a few whiskies,
then she likes to tell the stories of cleaners and how women took a chance to
rule and never turned back.
Read
on…if you dare.
Manifesto the Great was working on
his incognito pose when she appeared. Poised like a starfish with his pot belly
pulsating in and out he looked anything but the intellectual leader he used to
be, and Beryl was impressed.
She was watching from the doorway,
clutching his tray of coffee made from beans ripened under earth’s sun, and
grounded between the thighs of five earth virgins-origins unknown.
So he believed…
In truth, she made his coffee from a
packet in her shed where all the other working girls made coffee, except it was
served in a mug so precious it could only be cleaned with silk.
Manifesto the Great had no idea his
coffee was as cheap as a worker’s loo roll. He was old, senile and too busy
trying to remember what he did yesterday to have time for coffee. By the time
he sipped his coffee it was cold, and with a quick sniff followed by a toss,
flying out the window splattering on the heads of masses below.
Three tosses and Beryl a young
frugal woman had changed the coffee to something cheap, of recyclable origin
and, thinking of the masses, good for hair.
Beryl watched her leader struggle
with his balance.
Not one man questioned Manifesto the
Great even though he repeated himself, fluffed his speeches and was frequently
found at the masses market looking for the way home.
The status quo suited them, and the
men had never had it so good.
Beryl had spent her time trying to
find what made her leader tick, and over the years of silent service, she realized
there was no tick to discover, just no choice.
Now Planet Hyman had a choice…
She watched the so-called great
leader struggle for balance.
“Why don’t you try it on tippy
toes?” she said.
“What?” He said, “In these shoes?”
“Sir you have no shoes on.” Said
Beryl and gestured to his bunions.
“Arrrh yes forgot about those little
blighters”
He eased up onto his toes.
“Steady…steady.”
He wobbled, fumbled and grabbed his
desk.
Beryl looked at the cleaner lurking
about the doorway “not long now” she mouthed.
The cleaner mid brushing of a cobweb
nodded, pressed her hoover to shag-pile brushes and whispered into the nozzle,
“tippy toes in operation.”
Beryl stared at her leader trying to
balance with his arms outstretched like tight rope walker.
He smiled at Beryl.
“See, it works, incognito.”
He wobbled again.
Any minute thought
Beryl with quick scrutiny her nails.
He grabbed the desk and missed,
sending the Leader of the Year paperweight ball skidding across the desk-
straight for his manifesto notes…
Beryl, fanning a save the notes run
made for the paperweight as Manifesto the Great tumbled to the floor.
“Noooooo…” he shouted.
“It’s now or never,” shouted Beryl
to the cleaner.
“Go go go…” hissed the cleaner into
her hoover nozzle.
Like a swat team in aprons, the
cleaners descended into the offices, the corridors of power, and the canteen.
Manifesto the Great and his crew
didn’t stand a chance.
Kerrie Noor 
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