Day 19

Dear Diary,

Well, Dear Diary, they’ve unloaded all the junk (with my apologies to Mr. Junk for taking his name in vain) and, if I must say, the boxes they’d stash on my seats were filthy. I’m gonna need a good valetting, I’ll tell you that much. My upholstery smells even worse than after Missus Milly Da Fardle spent a few hours in here the other day. I’ll tell you one thing, this Special Prized Collectibles Market they’ve been talking about for days is bigger’n the eye can see. From what I can make out, it’s divided into two parts. One for stuff you’d have in the house, and the other for stuff you’d give away as Christmas presents.

When we arrived (Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Finian Da Fabricator and me), I couldn’t help but notice Floozie Da Smelley (who got here earlier in her American convertible) yelling at a large official-looking man in a waxed jacket and gumboots. Clean gumboots, as well, not like not-so-owld Fergal Da Flatulator’s, wot likes to roll in slurry. Anyway, Floozie Da Smelley was shrieking to beat the band and pounding him on the chest with her forefinger, something she’s an expert at and can do without even chipping her pink artificial acrylic fingernails (the kind with genuine fake gemstones set in the middle wot are forever falling out and leaving unsightly gaps). Which reminds of the other day when Floozie Da Smelley accidentally on purpose lost five or ten of those ‘diamonds’ (wot used to be called ‘pastry’ back when her gran (old Emily Smelley) was a skivvy and used to get beat black and blue by her mistress, Miss Ephluvientia Bogge-Rhott-Whatnot. Emily Smelley and Miss Eglantine Mary Whatnot lived in a big, damp house on the end of the island wot sank down in the sea. Miss Ephluvientia Bogge-Rhott-Whatnott kept a budgerigar and forty-seven ginger tomcats, and during the flood the budgerigar drowned and the cats flew away. Or so claimed Emily Smelley, who wasn’t all there and probably ate them and only blamed the flood. Anyway, what I was about to say, only I nearly forgot, was that Floozie Da Smelley lost a whole bunch of these pastry stones in front of a tourist who was in the middle of looking at the junk back in Floozie Da Smelley’s Junk-O-Rama and wondering how to get out of buying anything. Only the tourist couldn’t speak English very well (sort of like Floozie Da Smelley, only at least he could speak another language), and while he was thumbing through his phrasebook in search of a handy excuse, Floozie Da Smelley started in screaming and yelling even louder’n usual, accusing him of stealing her priceless diamond and rubies and saphrolites. Poor man was scared half to death and back, what with her threatening to report him as an illegal Mushroom Terrist Raper Ailing and Durg Feend, and so he bought €3,000 worth of stuff on the spot, using his shiny black credit card (which was even good). ‘Course, he was only a tourist who was daft enough to stop off at the Smelley-Fanny emporium (and not all those other things), and even had a passport that specifically declared him to be A Person Above Suspicion. Imagine him afraid he’d been mistook for O’Sammy Beansalad by Floozie Da Smelley, who were nothing but a bottle blond with furry armpits and didn’t know the difference between a Mushroom Terrist Raper Ailing Durg Feend and a bottle of tomato sauce. Poor man (I never did get his name) was from Sweden as a blond as a new potato. Bet he’ll never come back here again. I’ll also bet that’s the last time he’s tempted by a Junk-O-Rama.

But back to when we (Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Finian Da Fabricator and me) arrived at the Special Prized Collectibles Market this morning. As I said, there was Floozie Da Smelley screeching a new hole in the ozone layer, and there was the large, official-looking man, whose name (according to his plastic nametag) was Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu, trying to hide behind his clipboard and no doubt wishing he was home in bed. She screamed and screamed and carried on something dreadful about their stall being put back by the row of 200 portable toilets. He stood firm (I could see that on account of the way his toes curled in and by his black aviator shades) and said she could take it or leave it. He weren’t gonna pollute the good side of the market with her filthy, skanky, bad-taste merchandise, only he didn’t exactly say ‘merchandise’. More like shit, only he pronounced it ‘shite’ to soften the blow. And because it’s a respectable word.

Eventually, Floozie Da Smelley relented (which was a first for her) and made Finian Da Fabricator and a coupla bums she found drinking potheen behind the portable toilets unload the American convertible and me. Only she didn’t exactly allow the bums to so much as touch the convertible, so Finian Da Fabricator had to do it all hisself. Of course, he hurt his back real bad, but she didn’t care. And when it came to unloading me, she didn’t mind a bit that the bums slimed me all over my paintwork and upholstery, and even sat down on one of my seats and drank the rest of Finian Da Fabricator’s special stash of potheen. Believe me, I breathed a sigh of relief when they’d finished and all the junk boxes had been taken out and I was alone. I shook myself like a dog, I did. And bless old Finian Da Fabricator, for he came back to me quick as you please and hosed me down real good. He polished me, as well, in spite of his sore back, and even took the time to smear some of that special cream on me so the sun wouldn’t blister my paintwork.

While he was polishing me, I happened to look over my shoulder, over beyond the portable toilets, and saw that Miss Candee Da Smelley-Fanny’d brought about half a dozen of the sheep Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’d bought from not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker with phoney money. She’d refreshed their pink-sprayed coats and painted their toenails gold and decorated them with sparkly gold collars set with large pastry diamonds. She’s raised her prices, too, and was charging each kid who was dumb enough to come and pet them €8.00, plus €3.00 per bag of the grass she’d stole from the neighbour’s prized lawn. Much to my amazement, there were all sorts of kids there, forking over their daddy’s cash like there was no tomorrow. The thing is, sheep around these parts are as cheap as damp rot on houses. I figure little missy Candee Da Smelley must have blackmailed them. Both she and Floozie Da Smelley specialise in divulging the secrets of others. They’re both experts in making ‘em sound even worse than they already are. Candee Da Smelley could get a job as a media consultant, only she’s too stupid. Beside, she’ll never get off this island. They’ve posted up her photo at all the ports.

Floozie Da Smelley’s still arranging her stall and repositioning it so no one can get to the portable toilets without buying something first. I think I’ll have a nap and am gonna hide my pencil so no one (especially Floozie Da Smelley) can nick it. I’ll close for now. I know it’s not the end of the day, but I’ll write it anyway: So endeth another day.