Day 13

Dear Diary,

What a confusing day I had yesterday. If I hadn’t been a bus I’d have suspected I’d been attacked my multiple delusions or hallucinations or perhaps even a bilious fugue. Fortunately, us buses aren’t prone to such nonsense, simply hyperactive sensitivity syndromes and an over-developed sense of anxiety. It comes from being forever invaded by humans, who do all sorts of unmentionable things once they’re inside of one, and think thoughts they’d never admit to, not even to a priest. Unfortunately, we tend to absorb the more extreme essences, those which perforate our already over-developed memory cells and bring on all sorts of complications. It happens all the time, although after children and old people have been riding up and down the country in us and’ve been performing uncharitable deeds on our upholstery and wishing their neighbours evil times and visits to Hades, we often come over all strange and ask ourselves why we’d been born busses if it’s so stressful. That is why our union (The Federation for Classic Buses) demands one day off every other fortnight and a lube job every three thousand miles (not that humans pay any attention). Anyway, since you are a diary and not a bus and might not understand where I’m coming from, I wanted to explain why yesterday was so strange and why I had that horrible attack of visions and fainting spells.

Needless to say, it’s all gone today, though one never knows what’ll happen after too much time spent in the presence of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley and little Miss Perfect Pickle. I only hope the latter rides to school in her mother’s gold Mercedes as is her preference, cuz otherwise I anticipate a winter of oil leaks and exploding alternators. More and more I miss not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker, for all his sorry peccadilloes, and I wish I’d peed on owld Fingus Da Flatulator’s matches so he couldn’a blowed hisself up. But such is life and hindsight is twenty-twenty, as some fool said. At least I’ve got a new paint job to show for it, even if it’s pink and chartreuse with sprinkles.


Anyway, Dear Diary (as I was about to say before I decided to explain about my visions), last thing yesterday I was interrupted in the middle of thinking up some choice words to say about Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s home. Only I never got around to write them down. The scraping of a key in the lock set me into a blind panic. What if it’d been him or Floozie Da Smelley or their stinky Precious Golden Pearl wanting to come into the garage and hatch up some evil plan concerning my future? Course, if I’d been a human, they’d have stayed inside their home and talked behind my back. But since I’m ‘only’ a bus, they probably thought it were necessary to look at me straight in the headlamps whilst insulting my intelligence. Anyway, I got so angry at the prospects of having them invade my garage that I passed out (something I’m doing all to often, probably because my oil is old and mostly used up).

It turns out I needn’t have worried. Unbeknownst to me, what actually happened was Finian Da Fabricator accidentally stepped in a bucket of paint, just as he’d about finished up for the day. Only it wasn’t exactly paint, but wet concrete. Don’t ask me how, cuz even not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker is stupid enough to do that, not even when he’s been drinking potheen with his only two friends in the world, Arnie Pizzlepod and Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien, who work late night shifts at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic down on the other side of the island, where all the sophisticated and worldly people live. Only Arnie Pizzlepod and Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien don’t exactly live there, what with them having been born on this swampy end of the island, close to where Owld Fingus Da Flatulator kept his sheep dip before he blew hisself up. No one from the good side of the island wants the likes of them living down where they can smell them, not even if they could sell their neighbour’s property behind their backs for €732,999, which is enough to buy the old, re-painted refrigerator behind the Woman’s Institute. €732,999 is, as everyone knows, the official asking price, what with property values being artificially inflated and all.

As you can see, Dear Diary, my mind is all of a tizzy and I’m having trouble keeping my story straight, but never mind. We’ll get there in the end.

As I was trying to tell you, I fainted dead away at the prospects of Misther Patchouli and his family (especially his family) coming into the garage, hatching plots regarding my future and spoiling my day. I was, therefore, over the moon when I woke up and discovered my panic was about nothing at all. It was only Finian Da Fabricator getting stuck in a bucket of concrete, and even he thought it was funny. In fact, he laughed so hard, I suspected he may have been sneaking potheen into his polystyrene coffee containers instead of coffee. He laughed and snorted and brayed and peed hisself and eventually, after coughing hisself half to death, he took out his mobile phone to call for help. Only the batteries had run down, or he ‘d used up all his minutes or something, cuz he asked me if I’d mind tooting my hooter nice and loud, and keep on beeping it ‘til someone came in and told me to shut up.

As in all the best plans, it didn’t work out as planned. Nobody came, not even Misther Patchouli Da Fanny or Floozie Da Smelley or their skanky little brat with the sausagey golden curls, Miss Candee Da Smelley-Fanny. Guess they were either away or watching one of them reality television programs they talk about so much. However, all was not lost, and in the end Finian Da Fabricator and I gave up on them rescuing him and curled up where we were and went to sleep. Him in his bucket of concrete and me on the piece of carpet I keep for myself for chilly nights. The only thing lacking was a hot water bottle.

Goodnight, Dear Diary. As I always say, so endeth another day.