Mother and Fathers Improbable Meeting

 

“To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering one must not love. But then one suffers from not loving. Therefore, to love is to suffer; not to love is to suffer; to suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy, then, is to suffer, but suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be happy one must love or love to suffer or suffer from too much happiness.”

Woody Allen

 

Once  again the actual fat chance of our hero existing once again comes into play with some incredibly, mind boggling odds.  The numbers are difficult to comprehend.  There are approximately 7 billion people in the world, give or take a few dozen.  It does tend to fluctuate. Now factor in that around 70%  are adults and that there’s essentially a 50/50 split between males and females. Which means there are about 2.45 billion potential special people out there for any one person. So in a nutshell a person has a 1 in 2.45 billion chance of meeting a life partner.

 

In this case the egg donor and the sperm supplier met as entirely by chance as is possible to conceive, quip fully intended. Mother was on a day out at, roll on the drums, Southend-on-Sea.  Again the sea and water! Mother and her younger sister were ambling around the beautiful playground that was the funfair at Southend in an affable manner, circa 1951. As they strolled around in their best attire they spotted a ride that they both agreed would be fun. However the ride was going to project them up to some crazy G-forces. Giggle force. They duly deemed the ride unsuitable for their handbags. Then the problem arose. Neither of them had had the forethought to bring alone a young man as company and chief bag handler. What were the young ladies to do in order to find a solution to this thorny problem? Trumpets please and sounds of horns blaring out in a Roman Empircal mode in the background. Enter stage left our hero, that handsome slim but well -built old devil, Brylcreemed and clad in jaunty grey flannels and a blue jacket, that caddish looking chap who would be known as Father. For some blindingly naïve reason, or such was the desire to go on this particular fairground ride that the ladies asked Father (to be) to hold their handbags. But move beyond the mere bag in its material form. For in the bag was their money. Money they had been saving for this day out, the keys to their home, ration cards and other forms of identification, apart from the mundane essential of cosmetics, and probably spare knickers for purely emergency reasons. Just what were legitimate emergency reasons was never alluded to in any great detail. Although there was enough material for an emergency parachute, or two! Maybe that was the answer. Covert parachute production.

 

And what a fascinating place Southend-on –Sea was for the funky hipsters of the time. Originally the ‘south-end of Prittlewell village, so much more appealing and lyrical to the ear. As a resort Southend- on-Sea grew in popularity from the Georgian era onwards. To celebrate this popularity a pier was built in 1830. Then after some time the very sensible idea of building it in iron instead of timber saw the new, stronger modern pier open in 1889. And what a pier! At 2,158 meters long, or 7,80 feet, or if you really want to get a concept of its length try 1.34 miles or 2.16 kilometers, the longest in the world. Southend-on Sea could really say come and have a look at this! This epic sized construction juts in a phallic like manner into that aquatic playground known as the Thames Estuary. The location of Southend -on-Sea geographically means that it has warm summers. However remember these are British summers we are talking about, with no dry season.  Exactly. Brolly, please.

 

Back to the amusement park. In fact they met at what they termed the Kursaal. This is a German word and means the ‘main public pump room in a spa.’ However it was used in the  English language to denote a Fairground or Amusement Park at that time. The Germans must have been outraged at this blatant and abusive misuse of their beautiful language. So much so that in May 1915 the German High Command sent a huge Zeppelin captained by a certain Hauptmann Erich Linnarz to visit England. Well to be honest they only did huge when it came to Zeppelins. Anyway, the gallant captain was tasked with attacking London. However he single handedly destroyed the myth of German thoroughness and efficiency  when he decided, on a whim, to drop a few bombs on Southend. As you do. Just to say hi! Maybe he spotted too many sunbeds without towels laid on them reserving them for after the war. Later when Captain Linnarz was deterred from attacking London he dumped the rest of his bombs on Southend again on his return trip. What a generous soul. Hundreds of  bombs exploded in the town and duly punished the English for using and twisting the linguistic usage of Kursaal so derisively. Take that Englander! Anyway this meant nothing to Mother and Father in 1951 outside of the offending Germanic word which was in common usage at that time.

 

The ride. Father, on being accosted and asked if  he would hold their bags, and being the gentleman that he was, duly agreed. And then he waited patiently while the ladies had their fun, hurtling around at unimaginable speeds and giggling. He did not rifle through the bags, for he had left his rifle back in barracks. Nor did he pilfer anything, not even the spare bloomers. Instead he  stood as if he were a sentry outside Buckingham Palace, solid and reliable. Hwe was definitely starting to feel solid. Or maybe he was thinking along the lines of a ride for a ride. Come on ladies, I was ever so helpful! Either way contact was established and events would unfold at such a rapid pace that Father would ask for her hand in marriage, and all the other attached bits too, in only three weeks from the day they met . Now that was a fast worker. Notably neither of them took heed from the inherent warning to be taken from the initials of where they met, Southend -on-Sea, or SOS. Three dits, three dahs and three dits. Which incidentally does not stand for ‘’Save our Souls’’ as apropo as that sentiment may have been for their fateful meeting.

 

Now back to creating him. So, 23 male and 23 female chromosomes fused in perfect harmony, and excuse his immodesty, devilishly handsome to boot, and the process of creating him from the nothing he had been, which is nothing and nowhere as there was nothing there,  to the something he would become. He had, if you will, surfaced turtle-like and had his neck lassoed with his very own life-saver slung around his neck.

‘’And as unplanned as the ensnaring of a turtle with a life saver’’,  said the counselor, who really was pushing home her bitch-like advantage behind a banal smile, pineapple tilting slightly to one side dangerously. He agreed with the counselor, not from deference for her profession, but for the fact that somewhere in the depths of his mind, his walled and partioned brain, a dim 40-watt fly shit encrusted bulb had illuminated. It was visible through the cracks in some of his walls.

 

Unplanned he had slipped in unbidden (more punning) into Mother’s nether regions. Well, that was not exactly completely accurate nor true. He had been pumped in at 28 mph, or 44 kph for those of the metric system. Just stop and think about the size of a sperm, which is as mentioned earlier only 50microns long. And then fire it off at 28 mph, that really is some forward motion. After such an explosive start the sperm, naturally, starts to slow down just a tad. Well you wouldn’t you. And then takes the slip road of the motorway and takes about 72 hours to reach the egg.

At first he wasn’t much to look at with just two layers, but he was replicating nicely and by 4-weeks he had built himself up to the size of a poppy seed, and could then officially be called an embryo.

’’ Hey you’’

‘’What’’

‘’You’re an embryo’’

‘’Thanks’’

His brain which developed from a neural tube, was coming along nicely, as was his spinal chord. Although others would later testify that our heroes brain development had been as stunted as Snow Whites dwarves. But still nobody knew he was there, not even Mother. However around the 12th week Mother grew exhausted on blaming everything on ‘the wind’ and sought a more definitive diagnosis for her discomfiture. If it were wind, then the future did not look rosy for her, or those in her company. Beseeching pleas were made by the family who felt the acute lack of ventilation in their home at that time. Mother was encouraged strongly to find a cure for  her windy problem, so a visit to a doctor was arranged. The very profession that had been so reliable in her life up until then.  But beggars can’t be choosers. The doctor concurred that it was not wind in a relieved tone. The he quietly closed the surgery window fretting over the lack of fenestrations in his small surgery. He then informed Mother that she was in fact pregnant. With child, bun in the oven and up the duff.

‘’So you were an accident,  an unwanted child and you threw a the family out of kilter ’’ said the counselor.

‘’Have you ever thought of how such thinking pervaded their thinking of you then, and later on?’’

No he hadn’t, he was being taken to places his mind had not dwelt on before. It was unsettling. Revolutionary.

The flensing was going quite nicely.

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