Wow my mind is blank this evening – so to get this done and ‘flex the muscle’ I’m going to just have to write what comes out of my fingers. My fingers – which look like they belong to some olden day maid or ancient crone. I have a cut on my knuckle which keeps cracking and bleeding, so then I put a plaster on it but within minutes it is all soft and white like a scallop and no less sore. It’s all the wiping that’s doing it – as no 3 is spreading her mush far and wide.
Dinner today had been a little vile. The chicken had smelt bad. When she’d started preparing the meal, Margaret had known it did, but there was no more to get out, so she washed it under the tap, cleaning its pinkish grey skin and patting it dry as she would her baby’s bottom. She gingerly sniffed again – it smelled slightly less eggy. Although she knew that she would be happy to eat a meal without meat, Dave would demand protein, so she cooked it, flinging in spices and chili to try and mask the taste.
Grabbing a spoon, she served the food out and even wrapped the meat up, parcelling it inside the seeded tortillas, she had bought in an attempt to be more health conscious. But when it came to it, she couldn’t put the pieces into her mouth. She began to pick the chicken titbits out of her wrap, building a small cairn of rejected fowl at the side of her plate. The remaining faint whiff made her gag. Why had she cooked it? Please let her not get an upset stomach. Imagine if the whole lot of them went down with food poisoning. It was unthinkable. Yet despite her misgivings Margaret still gave the scraps to the dog. Fingers crossed the greedy mutt would not end up shitting on the floor, though he did that often enough anyway.
When she had been in the final weeks of her pregnancy the dog had crapped on the mat nearly every single night. According to Doctor Google he had been feeling neglected and the only way to make him stop was to give him more fuss. Chance would have been a fine thing, undivided attention had been in pretty short supply as Margaret had staggered through the dying days of her pregnancy. The cramps, the contractions, the fact that the baby had felt like it was living in her arse, blocking her up and making her miserably constipated, it had felt like the dog was laughing in her face. Look at me! Look at me, pooping so easily it just slips out onto the floor, while you walk around with a turd log jam backed up to the middle of next week. A symptom of pregnancy conveniently ignored by many.
Still she’d had her poo in the end – as big and round as Pink Lady apple – and bam, the waters had broken right there on the loo, signalling the imminent arrival of the baby. That wasn’t the final curtain either – several hours later the sensation to bear down and push had led to yet more indignity as a handful of sheep-pellets showered down on her own ankles, before she threw up and then had a baby.