Ben Elton - Inconceivable

Inconceivable

by Ben Elton

1999

Lucy desperately wants a baby. Sam is determined to write a hit movie. The problem is that both their efforts seem to be unfruitful. What Sam and Lucy are about to go through is absolutely inconceivable. The question is, can their love survive?

D ear?

Dear.

Dear Book?

Dear Self? Dear Sam.

Good. Got that sorted out. What next?

Lucy is making me write this diary. Except its not a diary. Its a book of thoughts. Letters to myself is how she put it, hence the Dear Sam business, which of course is me. Lucy says that her friend, whose name escapes me, has a theory that conducting this internal correspondence will help Lucy and me to relax about things. The idea is that if Lucy and I periodically privately assemble our thoughts and feelings then well feel less like corks bobbing about on the sea of fate. Personally, I find it extraordinary that Lucy can be persuaded that shell become less obsessed about something if she spends half an hour every day writing about it, but there you go. Lucy thinks that things might be a whole lot better if I stopped trying to be clever and started trying to be supportive.

Its now five minutes later and I find I have no thoughts and feelings to assemble. Lucy has been right all along. Im a sad, cold, sensitivity-exclusion zone who would rather read the newspaper than have an emotion. I always thought she was exaggerating.

Dear Penny,

I m writing to you, Penny, because in my childhood you were my imaginary friend and I feel that Ill be more open and honest if I personify the part of myself to which Im addressing these thoughts. Does that make sense? I do hope so because, quite frankly, if ever I needed an imaginary friend I need one now. The truth is that I want to have a baby. You remember how our favourite game when I was a child was looking after babies? Well, things havent changed at all, right down to the fact that I still havent actually got a baby to look after. This thing, so simple to many women, is proving very difficult for me. Sam and I have been trying for five years (I hate that word, we used to make love, or have a good shag, now we try), and so far not a hint. You could set your watch by my periods.

Sometimes I feel quite desperate about it and really have to struggle not to be jealous of women who have babies, which I loath myself for. Occasionally, and I hate to write this, Im even jealous of women whove had miscarriages. I know that sounds awful and Im quite certain I wouldnt say it if Id had one myself, but at least Id know I could conceive. I dont know anything. My wretched body simply refuses to react at all.

However, and let me say this very firmly, Penny, Im determined that I am not, I repeat NOT, going to become obsessed about all this. If, God forbid, it turns out that I cannot have children, then so be it. I shall accept my fate. I shall not acquire eight dogs, two cats, a rabbit and a potbellied pig. Nor will I go slightly mad and talk too loudly about topiary at dinner parties. I shall not be mean about people who have children, calling them smug and insular and obsessed by their kids. Nor will I go on about my wonderful job (which it isnt anyway) to harassed mums whove not spoken adult English for two and a half years and have sick all over their shoulders and down their backs.

I will also desist from writing letters to imaginary friends. I hope that doesnt sound hurtful to you, Penny, but I feel I must be firm at this juncture. Whatever the fates decide for me, I intend to remain an emotionally functional woman and I absolutely SWEAR that I will not get all teary when I walk past Mothercare on my way to the off licence like I did last week.

What does she find to write about? Ive been sitting watching her for ten minutes and she hasnt paused once. What can she possibly be saying?

The most important thing to remember, Penny, is that there are many ways of being a whole and fulfilled woman and that Motherhood is only one of them. It just happens to be the most beautiful, enriching, instinctive and necessary thing that a woman can do and is entirely the reason that I feel I was put upon this earth. Thats all.

However, as I say, despite remaining resolutely unobsessed, I do not intend to give up without a fight. Five years is too long and I have decided that after two more periods Ill seek medical help. Sam doesnt like this idea much. He says that its a matter of psychology, claiming that whilst at the moment we can still see ourselves as simply unlucky, if we go to a doctor well be admitting that we are actually infertile and from that point on well be forever sad. Of course the real reason that Sam doesnt want to go to a doctor is because its the first step on a road that will almost certainly lead to him having to masturbate in National Health Service semen collection rooms. However, were going to do it, so T-F-B, mate, too flipping bad.

This really is very depressing.

And to think that I had dreams of being a writer. Oh well, at least this sorry exercise serves the purpose of shattering for all time any remaining illusions I might have had about possessing even a modicum of creative talent. If I cant even write a letter to myself, then scintillating screenplays and brilliantly innovative television serials at the very cutting edge of the Zeitgeist are likely to be somewhat beyond my grasp.

Oh good, shes finally stopped.

So what Ill do is Ill just carry on writing this sentence Im writing now for a moment or two longerso that it doesnt look like I stopped just because she didHo hum, dumdy dum

What can I say? Saturday tomorrow, going to see George and Melinda plus offspring.

Brilliant, Sam. Give the boy a Pulitzer Prize. Thats it, finito.

Dear Penny,

I must admit that going to see Melinda and George with their new baby today was a bit difficult. I hate being envious, but I was. It was so sweet, a little boy and absolutely beautiful. Hes got quite a bit of dark hair and is very fat in a tiny sort of way. Couldnt get over his little fingers, I never can with brand new babs. Just gorgeous.

Dear Book,

I m very worried about George and Melindas new sprog. Ugly as a monkeys arse. Couldnt say so, of course, but I could see that poor old George was dubious. He calls it Prune which I think is fair, although old mans scrotum would probably be closer to the mark; what with that strange black hair and so much skin one could easily imagine him swinging between the legs of some prolaptic octogenarian.

I had hoped that the sight of young Prune (or Cuthbert as he is called) might put Lucy off a bit, make her see that there are enormous risks involved with propagation. Remind her that for every Shirley Temple theres a Cuthbert. The thought of having to face those chasmic, gaping, bawling toothless gums five times a night would, I imagine, make any woman reach for the condoms. Quite the opposite, though. She thinks hes utterly adorable. Amazing. Its like were looking at different babies. I mean I know hell probably turn out all right. All babies start off looking like the last tomato in the fridge, but cute, gorgeous and adorable, which were the adjectives Lucy was throwing about the place with gay abandon, struck me as the ravings of an insane and blind woman.

Quite frankly, I began to see King Herod in a wholly different light.

I got home feeling all clucky and sad but I am determined to resist maudlin Im barren mawkishness. The truth is, though, I fear that I am barren and if that isnt enough to make me mawkish I dont know what is. I mean, some girls are up the duff straight off. Lucky bitches. Their eggs just seem to be genetically programmed sperm magnets. My friend Roz from college could get pregnant just by phoning her husband at work and if you believe what you read in the papers half the schoolgirls in the country are teenage mums. But some women, Im afraid, women like me, well forget it. Im about as fertile as the Lord Chief Eunuch at the Court of the Manchurian Emperor. I couldnt even grow cress at school. All I ended up with was a mouldy flannel.