[fishnchimps]

Lancashire, 1840. The Rottledown Workhouse For The Poor.

That night a storm engulfed the sleepy town of Rottledown; thunder cracked and lightning forked the sky, rain lashed across the landscape and the wind sang its song across the moors. It was almost loud enough to drown out the screams of Joanna Barton, who was lost in the throes of childbirth. As she lay on a hastily constructed bed of straw and old blankets, Doctor Barnabus, the resident workhouse doctor and legendary drunkard, bellowed words of encouragement at her.

“Push woman, push!” He cried, anxious to get to the tavern before it shut for the night. Joanna pushed with all her might. The storm intensified as a tiny head began to appear, the doctor grabbing eagerly at it. Ridley Smythe, the owner of the Rottledown workhouse, stood in the background.

“Hurry now, Joanna,” he ordered “Any longer and I'll have to take it off your lunch break tomorrow. Those wallets won't make themselves, and I've got quotas to meet”

Joanna ignored him, and set her mind on freeing the child within her. She pushed and pushed, gritting her teeth through the pain, until finally the doctor held up a slippery infant.

“Here we are, a fine infant boy” he cried triumphantly.

“I think it’s a girl” corrected Joanna.

“Look,” said the doctor, slurring the words “I’m the one with a medical licence, and I say it’s a boy.”

He pushed the baby in Joanna’s arms, who knew it to be girl, partly due to the ancient bond between mother and daughter, and partly because she didn’t have a penis. She wrapped her daughter in a blanket and rocked her gently to sleep.

“Now,” said the doctor, “the birth certificate.” He produced a blank form, along with a pen, from his medical bag. The bottles of gin and ale clinked as he did so.

He recorded this soon to be historical birth, stating that a boy was born on the 4th of April, 1840 to Joanna Barton & Father Unknown.

“Have you a name for this lad, Miss Barton?” He asked.

“Yes,” she said dreamily, gazing into the babe’s eyes. “She shall be called Destiny, and she shall make her mark on this world”.

And so it was that the doctor, in his alcohol-riddled state, put down the name the girl would live with the rest of her life: Density Barton