Through the amniotic mist

'Through the amniotic mist'

The hot copper pipes leave scorching tramlines on her slim back while
the
laundered white sheet at her feet crumples like discarded toilet paper.
A trail of
hungrily removed clothes is littered down the bare corridor. This is
the moment of
my conception in the industrial airing cupboard of Keswick youth
hostel.
It's the 30th July 1966 and four hours earlier England won the World
Cup.
Using this unlikely occurrence as an impeccable excuse the teenage
couple decided to
celebrate with a tour of the Private: Staff Only quarters. 'Strangers
in the Night' is
high in the hit parade and as the words of ol' blue eyes resonate
through the plumbing
from the jukebox in the bar three hundred million sperm make their
monumental
journey&;#8230;.wond'ring in the night&;#8230;.what were the
chances.&;#8230;we'd be sharing love.&;#8230;
Two, three and even four months later the once in a lifetime
achievement of
my conception is under fire in the birth control equivalent of chemical
pollution. My
embryonic sack with its permeable shell is being infiltrated with
domestic bleach and
cheap gin. Following the last of these incessantly disastrous cocktail
parties, like a
virgin debutante I gasp and groan into the following day. A morning of
'never again'
clutching my fontanelle is interrupted when I'm thrown helter-skelter
down steep
wooden stairs. If the pile of sluttish laundry at the bottom had been
more frugal the
outcome could have been very different but I survive what is supposed
to be the
ultimate send off and apart from a broken ankle so does the person who
stood close by
me on those first forays into misadventure and wrong paths.
At birth minus two months my bearer (the one who accompanied me when
I
was doing the season) is sobbing and being comforted by women in hats.
Crustless
paste sandwiches sprinkled with parsley sprigs cover every available
surface in the
small kitchen. There's talk of a wedding but someone called dad won't
come. 'Over
my feckin' body' are his exact words in an accent I've not heard
before. He picks up
a bottle of Jamesons from the Formica table and staggers out the room,
crashing into
the doorframe and a woman carrying a packet of Co-op doilies.
An hour or so later my bearer is holding onto a walking stick for
support and
wearing a display of white flowers on her head. She is standing next to
a tall man
who I'm sure I've seen before. Perhaps I stood next to him yesterday in
the queue for
the big red bus from Crouch End to Finsbury Park. There's whispering in
the back of
the room and it appears that 'feck man' has changed his mind about
something. My
bearer and the man from the bus say a few serious sounding words to
each other and
everyone leaves. Outside it's snowing which is strange because it
wasn't when we
came in but my bearer just laughs and throws her stick in the air while
clutching her
flowers. Bus man joins in the laughter picking snowflakes from the his
suit before
driving everyone away in a rusty Ford Anglia to the house with the
sandwiches.
Here, amidst sweet tea and dry sherry the women in hats frantically
debate how on
gods dear earth they'll get the food to feck mans house.
Apparently Gladys from the flat downstairs works for the cat protection
league
and her supervisor has a van. It might be a bit smelly and there's
bound to be some
stray hairs around but it gets more votes than a convoy of overdressed
women
carrying trays of simple buffet food onto a number seventy-seven.
The van arrives and bus man opens the back doors and lets out a
shriek.
There's still a cat in it. Tolstoy is in a cage and fearing he's about
to be the cat-du-
jour at an impromptu wedding reception he meows loud enough to shatter
the glass at
Ally Pally. A handful of crabsticks are stuffed through the cage and a
blanket is
spread out on the van's floor. The women all load the buffet into the
van and florist's
ribbon is ceremoniously secured to the wing mirrors.
As we pull out onto the North Circular Road heading for feck man's
house my
intuition tells me this is supposed to be a sunset and serenade moment
but I'm not
complaining - the view looks like survival.