Day 15

Dear Diary,

Well, it’s the end of the day, one I thought would never finish itself off, not never ever ever. Remind me, if I ever get reborn as an old nasty biddy, to stab myself with a rusty fork ‘til I eventually rot and they hafta bury me in the ground yesterday. Only I don’t want to be buried here, not with them and their friends (not that they have friends, only other biddies who they hates). I’d never get a moment’s peace, what with them yelling non-stop. It’s no wonder the divil don’t want ‘em; he’s got some standards, don’t he. Sigh. In all the time I transported old people around the continent with Golden Twilight Years Tours I was only ever inflicted with Fluffy Daffy Dotties, whose only drawbacks were they’d used up all their memory cells keeping track of their bingo cards. However, to a woman (and man, I suppose you could say, although there was only one of the male persuasion who’d survived long enough to partake of the experience), they were as sweet to each other as treacle and honey combined. Smelt like lavender water and powder, with a certain subtle undercurrent of La Incontinentale. You noticed I said ‘partake’ rather than ‘enjoy’ when I included the only man who ever came on the tours, and that’s because I’ve a great memory of him being took real bad every time he ate Pergulla Da Splatta’s cooking, which was at least four or six times a day (for reasons I already told you about). The thing was he ended up spending more than the allotted number of hours in the toilet (although, being that Golden Twilight Years Tours charged an arm and a leg and a hip-replacement, they referred to it as the lavatory). All the old ladies eventually lost patience, what with them only having so many years left to enjoy the tours and were using them up fast waiting for the old man (Misther Flavious-Fremont Da Fibulator) to finished his business and clog up the drains with the cheap toilet paper supplied by the tour operators (although I ought to refer to it as Premium Handmade Lavatory Parchment, on account of that’s how it was advertised in the brochure). Although this hasn’t anything to do with my story, Dear Diary, I’ve happy memories of it and think you might enjoy hearing about it. By the by, I should mention here and now that the old man (Misther Flavious-Fremont Da Fibulator) also happened to be Pergulla Da Splatta’s third cousin once removed, which meant he qualified for a twenty percent premium on his ticket. Third cousin or not, however, eventually the chauffeur, Mingus Da Pingus, left him behind a tree after a rest stop where they were all looking through a telescope at birds like the ones they had at home, and that solved the problem. Now where was I?

Ah, yes, the present situation vis-à-vis today’s passengers. I don’t know where they dug up the present assortment of biddies, but I wish for my sake they’d put ‘em all back where they found them and not dig ‘em up again. Perhaps they’re nicer at one of the other old people’s homes on the island, of which there are at least a hundert or so, what with the population being so ancient, and all. Anyway, they were simply awful, on top of being all dried-up and desiccated. Nasty and spiteful and if they’d been kids I would’a washed out their mouths with lye. And then run them over at least forty times, back and forth, back and forth, just like if they were a fuzzy bunny. In the future I’m gonna recommend to Misther Patchouli Da Fanny that he should take his passengers from one of the cemeteries, especially the one at the far end of the island where people actually lived before they died. At least from the cemeteries they’ll have an excuse if they smell.

First thing this morning we (Finian Da Fabricator and I, even though he hasn’t got a licence) and I picked up the first old biddy at nine o’clock sharp. Of course, she said we were five minutes late and she’d been waiting so long her varicose veins had turned to a chunk of turf. She also said a lot of mean, personal things about Finian Da Fabricator’s person hygiene, which I won’t repeat on account of my being a gentleman. However, Finian Da Fabricator behaved like the perfect gentleman he is and helped her aboard without kicking her in the shins. He then showed her to a seat with a nice view of the village slurry pit, but she whacked him on the head with her shopping bag. Naturally, her shopping bag was one of them large blue and white Chinese ones with a zipper on top which never works, and it was full to over-flowing on account of it being her day to take everything back to the supermarket and complain and ask for her money back - even though she’d bought everything last month, and even then it was stuff older than the sell-by date because of the price. Life is very complicated when you were born a nasty, cheap biddy, which personally I think is gonna be Little Missy Candee Da Smelley-Fanny’s destiny when she grows up.

Anyway, after whacking Finian Da Fabricator a coupla times and knocking him out cold, she yelled at him some more and said she needed to sit right up front, right in back of him. Poor Finian Da Fabricator. That’s all he needed, didn’t he. His being knocked out cold and her sitting in back of him tapping him on the shoulder and tell him to go this way and that. She also had some choice words about his mother, which made me laugh and fart outta my exhaust pipes.

Anyway, I’m gonna interrupt myself in the telling of the day and pick up here tomorrow. Seems like a good place, as the rest of today was even more eventful and awful. In any case, it took about a hour for Finian Da Fabricator to come around, and I don’t thing you’re interested in how we sat there and the old biddy gossiped about everybody I’ve never heard of behind their backs, and then ‘phoned the call centre for the community bus service wot pays Misther Patchouli Da Fanny to run people around the island, and complained about how Finian Da Fabricator was taking a nap on the floor. She even had the nerve to tell ‘em he hasn’t got a licence. And then she phoned them again, this time to complain that my seat smelt bad. What she didn’t say was that she was the only one who’d been shitting on it since it was re-upholstered. Never mind, I’ll get back at her somehow, heh-heh.

I’m gonna close for now and rest, on account of I’ll need my strength to continue talking about the rest of the day. Life was never so exciting when I lived with not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker. So, as they say, here endeth the first part of the day, before Finian Da Fabricator woke up again.