Part of me fears I may be pregnant, not least because I watched that film in which Arnold Schwarznegger has a baby. Though I forget what it’s called, it was on the telly the other day. This means that if I am pregnant there’s a chance that the father is Danny Devito. Which would be kinda cool and sickening at the same time. If not for the mental image of being that close to a naked Devito for that reason.
But also, all babies look a bit like him anyway, so there is a remote chance he fathered everyone on the planet ever, including himself, and obviously Jesus too.
I think I’m pregnant however, not because I woke up next to the star of Romancing the Stone (Michael Douglass was outshone in that film) after a drunken night out, but because I’m craving Lemon Meringue Pie… Not like a proper home made one, but a defrosted Sara Lee type one that I used to eat as a child. And I have no idea why. In fact it’s not even the meringue that I’m craving, but just the lemon sludgy bit. I still have no idea why…I must be pregnant.
I am also poor…I hope I’m not pregnant, I can’t afford to raise a baby, I’m having trouble feeding myself adding SMA to my budget would mean I go without coffee. And no baby is worth that.
There are some horrible things about being skint that you have to go without. For instance, I’m out of hair gel stuff, this is not a necessity, I can get through my day without having big hair, but I like having big hair. It’s a tricky one. Could I live with myself with big hair, but a dead baby in a pushchair? I think not.
Dawn has come to my rescue by giving (yes giving, that’s the kind of generosity in our flat, folks) me a tub of hair gum gel wax stuff. It is lovely and pretty colours. And has a smell that reminds me of my childhood that I can’t place.
Tonight I am going to a big gothy club place, whilst getting ready I was feeling particularly nostalgic of whatever this gel smell was, and also particularly pregnant as my craving for the Lemon sludge got worse and worse.
And then it clicked, as I was sculpting my hair (sculpting is a word that proper hair people use, so I’m not being a ponce, it’s like a plumber saying he is doing some plumbing or a sculptor saying he is blow-drying) I realised that in fact I wasn’t pregnant. I wasn’t to father a baby devito.
But that the hair stuff smelt of Lemon Meringue Pie.
I’m not sure which is odder…