Day 14

Dear Diary,

Turns out Finian Da Fabricator wasn’t trapped for life in the bucket of concrete, after all, which is a shame on account of it would’ve made for a good story. On the other hand, being that he’s my only friend at the moment (though I live in hope that someone better’ll come along), I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to him, or to have him inconvenienced more’n absolutely necessary.

This is not to say the day didn’t get off on a sour note, meaning that at the crack of dawn, little Missy Candee Da Smelley-Fanny invaded the garage and started screaming on account of the ‘bus’ (being me) not being the right colour pink. That set me off right then and there, her calling me a feckin’ bus and uglier than a bull’s sphincter when he’s making his mess. Imagine her, a cute little freckled faced girl with dimples and sausagey curls, even knowing such language, let alone directing it at me. If she were my daughter, I’d sell her real cheap at the bargain table at Floozie Da Smelley’s Cheap and Cheerful Junk By The Tonne, or even give her way with a packet of crisps. As it was, I waited until she got directly behind me, and then blasted the loudest fart since the beginning of time, mixing in some oil and dirt and bits of gravel from the road for good measure. ‘Course, it got all over her shiny pink polyester frock and made her look like she’d been rolling in the slurry pit, and she turned bright purple in the face and kicked me real hard in the tyres and let out a screech that would’a made a banshee proud. To me it sounded like she’d been poked by a cattle prod in a bad place, and not just covered in bus leavings, but there we are. Makes me laugh when fools over-react like that. But I tell you one thing, if she ever rides in me and kicks the seat or throws other kids on the floor for daring to sit up front, I’ll run over her shoes and then chase her off a cliff. Even if Misther Patchouli Da Fanny sends me to the knacker’s as being possessed by an evil spirit. If I don’t stand up for myself, no one will.

I forgot to say that when little Miss Precious Perfect turned bright purple, her eyes glowed red as well, and her face blew up like a balloon and steam came outta her ears. And that’s the truth, no matter what anybody says.

Dear Diary, you needn’t remind me that I haven’t got round to describing Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s fluffy pink house, wot looks like a gilt marshymallow with feathers sticking out the top. I won’t forget. I Promise. Only at the moment I’ve got other things on my mind, such as how Finian Da Fabricator got his foot outta the concrete as well as wot he and Misther Patchouli Da Fanny talked about over a pint of potheen.

As I started to tell you, Dear diary, Finian Da Fabricator wasn’t doomed to spend the rest of his mortal coil in a bucket of cement. What happened was this. When little Missy Candee De Smelley-Fanny had her screaming fit after I sprayed her top to toe with bus fart, she ran out of the garage and slammed the door. Now, all this time, Finian Da Flatulator had been sound to sleep. It seems that he was raised in a family full of seventeen sisters (and a duck), and nothing little bratty girls can say or do bothers him to this day. However, he’s always been sensitive where slamming doors are concerned (although he won’t say why, but he might if I get him drunk enough and tickle his feet). So there he was, sleeping away to beat the band, and when little Missy Perfect Sausagey Curls slams the door clean off the hinges, he wakes up and runs to the door (again, he won’t say why), as if there’s no tomorrow. It was then I saw that he wasn’t wearing the bucket of concrete. “Where’s your bucket of concrete?” I asked him nice and polite. At which point he looked down and said, real surprised, “Will you look at that, my bucket’s gone.”

It seemed that, although no one noticed at the time, he was wearing his best pair of extra-heavy-duty gumboots when he stepped into the bucket. However, so busy was he picturing sharing the rest of his long life with a bucket, it didn’t occur to him that these particular Wellies were not only extra-heavy-duty, but extra large, to boot. Seems he’d been left ‘em by Owld Fingus Da Flatulator in his will (after he’d blown hisself up), and as everybody knows, Owld Fingus had feet the size of bathtubs. In fact, Finian Da Flatulator had just been complaining to me about how he was forever sliding out of the boots, when he went and stepped into the bucket of concrete. But then he got all scared he’d be mistaken for a large breezeblock, and then someone without much sense (not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker and Misther Patchouli Da Smelley spring to mind) would stick him in a building or bridge or parking lot. What with his perspiring and shaking and boo-hooing, it didn’t occur to him to merely step out of the boot. But such is life, and he’s now laughing at hisself and getting drunk on the rest of the potheen in his polystyrene container. I understand his relief, but am afraid he’ll end up like not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker, what with drinking all the time, and then I won’t want to be his friend.

A few minutes ago, Misther Patchouli Da Fanny came in and took Finian Da Fabricator away into a corner for a long talk, thinking that if they hide themselves away in the corner I won’t be able to hear. Ha-ha, is what I say. Cuz I can hear every word. What they’re saying is that tomorrow they’re gonna put me into service as a Community Bus, and since I’m a classic and know how to behave myself, they’re gonna let me transport a lot of old biddies from here to there and there to here. Morning to night. Personally, I’m not sure if I like the idea, but there’s nothing much I can do about it, which means I’ll be a perfect gentleman (if one can be such a thing when one’s spray-painted pink and chartreuse), go where I’m told and try to hide my feelings when one of them’s incontinent all over my new upholstery. I’ll let you know what happens.

I’ve decided to get some extra sleep tonight, just so I’ll be in a good mood in the morning. I’d hate to be grouchy and run over some old biddy simply because she laughs at my colour scheme or calls a preevert.

As I love to say, so endeth another day!