Day 23

Dear Diary,

Well, Dear Diary, nearly half the day is over and I’m as tuckered out as a radish wot’s been chewed to death by a newt. Finian Da Fabricator woke me up practically in the middle of the night, for which he apologised and poured about a gallon of Special High-Octane Super Hi-Performance Formula-One Elixir Of Life into my tank. While I was jumping up and down and practically ricocheting off the walls, he ladled hisself a gallon of his own Special Elixir down his own throat. ‘Course the reason he had to make do with his special coffee is on account of he’s too weebling to chug high-octane petrol. Heh-heh, I bet he also wishes he had a bus tank instead of the teeny tiny human version called (for some reason) a bladder, as right away it ran outta space and he had to go pee most of it back out. Poor Finian Da Fabricator. It’s not his fault he’s so puny, but there are times he’d be better off if his mammy had left him out in the bog like she did most of his brothers and sisters. To be a human is practically worse than being a sports car, on account of sports cars at least have bright and shiny metallic paintjobs. Humans look like boiled chickens, and that’s on their good days.

Today is a BIG day for me, as I’ve been chosen to transport a whole bushel of biddies to bingo and back. According to Finian Da Fabricator, it’d quite an honour, and it’s usually awarded to one of the fancy new transport vans. However, it seems Missus Milly Da Fardle took a right shine to me, on account of my being practically as old as her, or so she says. She also says I remind her of the good old days when all the local buses were Daimler CVD6s with Burlington 33-seater coachwork. While I’m honoured to have been chosen by her (and her word around here is only slightly above God, which means He doesn’t listen to her at His own risk), I should point out, Dear Diary, that back when I was new, this island was serviced by nothing but rotting cricketty donkey carts pulled by goats, on account of nobody was rich enough to own one donkey, let alone enough of ‘em to pull a bunch of fat ladies up and down all the hills and dales. I know all about stuff like that, cuz I was transporting folks around South Devon at the time, and the likes of Miss Milly Da Fardle weren’t allowed in the county, much less aboard the buses. How times change.

Anyway, given that I’ve been awarded the honour of conveying the biddies to bingo and back, I’ve had to listen to Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s explicit instructions for the day. According to him, on the way back to their little concrete bunker bungalow houses, when their handbags is filled to overflowing with bingo winnings (which is another story and one which’ll hafta wait until later), I’m supposed to drive into the big ruts just outside the town (the town not in the good side of the island where folks have jobs and don’t hafta play bingo to fill up the hours between the time the pubs close and the time the pubs open again). Once inside the ruts, which were specially made by Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s Custom Road Surfacing Company with a grant from the European Union, I am to roll over a couple of times and shake myself like a dog. If I do this right, all the bingo winnings will pour out of the biddies’ handbags and into a special slot in the ceiling of my coachwork. Misther Patchouli Da Fanny says this is only right and proper, in that bingo winnings is ill-gotten gains and the biddies aren’t allowed any income over their paltry pensions. Seems fair to me, although it’d be easier simply to rob them at gunpoint when they go to leave the bingo parlour. Either that or they could stuff Floozie Da Smelley into a brown tax collector’s uniform and rob them as they leave the bingo parlour in the approved government fashion. However, it seems the biddies took a vote some time ago and decided the rolling-round-the-rut method of usury was much less stressful than having to face the tax collector, even if it were only Floozie Da Smelley in a handmade paper uniform. Not only would there be fewer forms to fill out but there’d be less chance of a dozen civil servants boring them to death explaining the government’s new initiative for the elderly. At their age, they were popping off like flies as it was and didn’t need the government’s help in speeding up the process, thank you very much. And as for the guns-blazing-away-highwayman scenario, some of the biddies carried pistols in their handbags as a matter of course and might shoot the robber by mistake. And given that the robber would be Finian Da Fabricator in disguise (on account of his already being on Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s payroll), they’d have kilt off the driver and’d have no way to get home. From personal experience, the biddies knew it was not to their advantage to snuff the chauffeur, not if they wanted to get home in time for tea and stale scones. Heaven knows their families, all of which had about a dozen cars (including some that worked), couldn’t be bothered to give them the time of day, much less a lift home from bingo. In fact, most of ‘em were counting the days when their own personal biddy was too decrepit to wash all the windows and cook all the potatoes and turnips for dinner and scrub all the floors and do all the washing by hand. The minute this happened, they’d confiscate the paltry pensions and post office accounts that’d never been touched, as well as the pillowcases stuffed with obsolete bank notes. And before the biddies knew what had hit ‘em, they’d be moved into a dormitory home for the incontinent. Never to be seen again. As the children say, Glory Hallelujah and Thanks be to God.

I’m yawning something terrible. Finian Da Fabricator is massaging my seats and I’ve come over all funny. Did I tell you about his hands? Remind me to, Dear Diary, next time you wanna get your glasses steamed up. I’ve also got to give you the low down on why the biddies get all the good bingo winnings. Don’t let me forget. But for now, I gotta close and put away my pencil before I break it in half. As I always say, so endeth another day, even if it’s only I’m having a personal erotic moment.