Day 22

Dear Diary,

I spent a miserable night and am in a bad mood. Just as well I don’t have to drive biddies or brats around the island until tomorrow, or I’d head for the nearest cliff and dump them on to the rocks.

What happened was, Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Finian Da Fabricator drove me back last night, but instead of unloading all those toilets and parking me in the garage, they left me out in front the pink flatpack building and let the toilets spend the night inside of me. I’m sure the toilets must’a asked and wheedled Misther Patchouli Da Fanny all during the ride home not to be put out into the cold, for they had that “settled-in-for-the-night” look before we even got back home. Not that they’d tell me, of course. I’ve always found portable toilets to be more arrogant and rude than almost anything else. Of course, they’ve not got much going in their lives and probably suffer from a low self-esteem, but is that my fault? Hey, I didn’t have anything to do with them being made into portable toilets, did I? Am I to blame that I was born a Daimler CVD6 with custom-built Burlington 33-seat coachwork? Apparently they thought so, for all they did last night was bubble and spew noxious gases and spit and slop onto my floor. They also said a lot of rude stuff, but it was mostly unprintable and I don’t want to offend you, Dear Diary, so I’m choosing to overlook it. I’m also gonna ignore the songs they sang to keep themselves amused. ‘Campfire Songs’ they called ‘em, but all I can say is they’ve put camping back fifty years. The other thing they did was to say a lot of disrespectful home truths about caravans, most of which (I’m ashamed to say) I agreed with. But that’s another story for later. Please remind me, or else I’ll forget or else wake up at three in the morning and worry about it.

Needless to day I didn’t sleep a wink last night. Didn’t trust the portable toilets one bit, and was afraid they’d take advantage of my inattention and make an even worse mess of my beautiful interior than they already had.

I breathed a real sigh of relief this morning when Finian Da Fabricator showed up, looking all bright and cheerful after his day with Myrtleen Da Patootie. Whatever she did to him must’a worked a treat, on account of his eyes were shinier than a coupla bright new pennies. Maybe I should ask her to give some of whatever it was to me, too, cuz I’m not feeling particularly chipper at the moment.

Anyway, the first thing Finian Da Fabricator did this morning was start me up and drive me over to where Floozie Da Smelley’s gonna put up her New Genuine Deluxe Luxury Tourist Inn, which was where Candee Da Smelley-Fanny’s petting zoo used to be up until yesterday when they traded her for the 200 portable toilets. Already I could see the ground had been cleared of sheep souvenirs and sort of levelled off, and Floozie Da Smelley had put up two hundred genuine imitation gold and pink plastic picket fences where her Festive ‘Petite Chalets’ were gonna go. I could see most of the work had been done by the fat security guards from Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s Special Prized Collectables Market. They were standing around, still in their black and gold-braided uniforms and wearing their black aviator glasses, and looking like they’d been put through the ringer. Whatever it was they got from Floozie Da Smelley is sure not the same as what Finian Da Fabricator got from Myrtleen Da Patootie. They ought’a ask for their money back right here and now, cuz they were whiter’n zombies and wobbled when they walked.

Anyway, as soon as Finian Da Fabricator parked me by the field, the security guards rolled up their sleeves and unloaded me. It took longer than anybody’d expected on account of them forgetting the portable toilets were fuller’n a packed toad, and slopped all over everywhere at every opportunity. I really don’t think much of the manners of some of the cheaper public conveniences, especially the ones marked with the letter “M”. I know one’s got to make allowances for them, being as they’ve spent most of their lives on football pitches, but you can still tell their mamas’ didn’t bring ‘em up right. I for one held my breath all during the unloading so I wouldn’t die of the stink. And I’m glad to say most of the slopping was done after they took ‘em outta me. Otherwise there would’a been trouble, I can promise that.

After all the portable toilets had been unloaded and saw where they were gonna be put, they started right in bickering to beat the band. It seems that the newer, prettier ones, which coincidentally were all marked with an “F”, were demanding the best spots in front, the ones visible from the road and with newer garden furniture and fake grass. And, of course, they got their way, which is just as well as some of the older toilets would’a scared business away, especially families with small children.

After I was unloaded and the security guards were fighting with the portable toilets over where they wanted to go, Finian Da Fabricator climbed into my driver’s seat, turned the key in my ignition and patted me playfully on my steering wheel. “Well, old friend,” he said in a kind voice, “It’s time I got you cleaned up and deodorfied.” Right then and there I wanted to give him some of what Myrtleen Da Patootie gave out so freely, so thankful was I. But before I could tell him how I felt, he drove me briskly around back to the garage. We went straight inside and he shut the door and locked it. This made me a little nervous, and for a second I thought he was gonna take me up on my offer, but I needn’t have worried. All he did was soap me up real good and rinse me off with special conditioners. He even scrubbed out my innards and disinfected where the portable toilets had done their business, after which he shined everything up ‘til it nearly fell off. He then re-installed by seats (I ‘d though I’d lost ‘em for good, so this cheered me up no end), and rubbed ‘em ‘til they were squeaky clean and couldn’t even remember what the biddies’d done on them a few days ago.

After about a couple of hours, he put some of that special cream on me so the sun wouldn’t harm my paintwork. He then unlocked the door and backed me outside and parked me in a shady spot where I could look at all the action if I so chose. At the time, I felt so good I thought a nap might be more beneficial, especially since tomorrow I’m gonna take biddies on a day outing to bingo. In the end, however, I decided not to make up my mind about anything.

As it turned out, I didn’t get to sleep ‘til it was almost dark. There’s loads to tell you, but nothing that won’t wait till tomorrow. I might even write some in the morning before we set off. In any case, what I’ll do now is say, so endeth another day, and put my pencil away.