Day 10

Dear Diary,

In spite of myself, I’ve been feeling very chuffed all day. Not that I don’t still fear the worst for the future, but at least for now I can honestly say I’m as happy as a fruitcake full of brandy.

My estimation of Finian Da Fabricator has gone up. Not only did he open my door very gently and politely, but he wiped off his boots before entering. He also spread a sheet of plastic (fairly new and not pink) on my seat before he sat down, which is something that hasn’t happened since owld Fingus Da Flatulator used to take me joyriding before he blew hisself up. As I said before, owld Fingus used to be very considerate of my feelings. Not only did he never kick my tyres, but even when he was drunk as a lord he hardly every threw up on my steering wheel, which I appreciated. Wherever he is now, I hope he’s happy and has plenty of potheen and can still visit Marcela Da Splodge very other month to get his pipes cleaned.

Anyway, after Finian Da Fabricator started me up (he’s got very soft hands and when he turned the key in the ignition, it gave a cheap thrill), he drive me round the back of the Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s cheapo-built pink building, about which the less said the better, and into a small garage. I knew right away it was where Finian Da Fabricator worked, on account of it was scrubbed shiny and clean and didn’t smell like a stoat. He parked me carefully, right in the middle so I could see what was going on all sides and even behind me, and didn’t even run into the doors on the way in. Not like not-so-owld Fergal The Fecker, who was always driving into things and giving me a bloody nose (so to speak).

The first thing he did was rinse me off real nice with warm water, just the right temperature so it hit all the right spots. He then got me all sudsy and cleaned away all the mud and grit and dead insects and small birds, and even scrubbed a squashed cat from my left hand front tyre and got rid of about forty tonnes of cow stuff from within my treads. The latter musta been packed inside my tyres for ever such a long time, what with there being the three cows (Bernice, Milegarde and Lottie in case you forgot) and so many others forever tramping up and down the road looking to get home before milking, a situation they’d never got in in the first place were it not for them always running away. Don’t know why cows are always forgetting to go to the toilet before leaving home, but I’d probably do it was well if I was a cow. Anyway, I know for a fact the not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker never once even looked at my tyres, not even when he kicked them, and owld Fingus Da Flatulator was usually so drunk he probably forgot. Not that he forgot on purpose, unlike not-so-owld Fergal The Fecker, who was more concerned about trying to visit Marcela Da Splodge to have his pipes cleaned. Which he did, only she threw him out. Afterwards, he got uppity and called her a whoooer, which is something owld Fingus Da Flatulator never callt her, and wasn’t very mice. I’m only mentioning this last episode on account of it having slipped my mind before. Remind me to tell you about it later. It’ll make you laugh. I know it did me.

Anyway, after Finian Da Fabricator soaped me over real good, and had rinsed me and soaped me a second time just to make sure he’d not missed any dirt (and there was plenty, believe me), he rinse me again and then dried me with an engine thing I’d not seen when he’d parked me. Of course, I immediately apologised to it for appearing rude, but said it was on account of my being worried he was going to run into the door. The engine said not to fret, that I’d every reason to panic, seeing as how if Misther Patchouli Da Smelley’d been driving I’d have probably lost at least one headlamp.

This engine I was telling you about had a dirty great hose attached to it and it blasted me all over with hot air. I admired the hose and the engine said it was nice, but not so nice as the ones fire engines get to wear.

Anyway, after Finian Da Flatulator dried me all over, he took a soft cloth and wiped me in places I’d forgot about. Again I thought of how soft his hands were. If he were a small truck I’d want him to have my babies.

One interesting thing. He didn’t wax or polish me. I was about to resent this and was even thinking about calling his attention to it by gently (very gently) judging his toes with my front wheels, but then I saw him take some containers of paint from one of the cupboards at the back. And I went all numb and nearly fainted. He’s gonna paint me! I’m ecstatic. I’ve not had a new coat of paint since I don’t know when. I know I was bright and shiny when I was in regular service in South Devon, and I recall being painted a different colour after I was retired and I transported old people around and around Europe. But since then? Nothing, or not so I remember. Of course, I’ve had loads of sticky signs plastered all over me. Advertising and the like. But this is like being new again. I feel like owld Fingus Da Flatulator getting all dressed up bright and shiny to have his pipes cleaned by Marcela Da Splodge, way back before he blew hisself up.

I’m gonna put my notebook away and try to get some shut-eye. I’ve a feeling tomorrow’s gonna be a busy day. So, once again, here endeth another day.