Day 24

Dear Diary,

I eventually recovered my senses after Finian Da Fabricator had finished doing to me what he was doing. And after giving the pheromones in my transmission time to settle back down and regroup, I started right up smooth as a bucketful of silkworms. I noticed Finian Da Fabricator had put on a new uniform, silver serge with gilded epaulets and red braid zigzagging every which way and back, and with his name embroidered in florescent script over his heart. I’m not sure why he needed his name in such big letters (which made the uniform look cheap). Perhaps it’s on account of the biddies being as blind as bats. Or perhaps he’s shortsighted and can’t remember who he is without looking down at his right nipple. He also had a matching cap on his head, only it was too small and made his ears look more pointy than when you looks at him from up close (although from a distance he does put you in mind of an aeroplane head on, but that’s the way he was built and no fault of his). Finian Da Fabricator may be the love of my life, but he does look like a gnome wot’s been poached and then put through a mangle.

Misther Patchouli Da Fanny proudly informed me that the uniform was funded by a grant from the European Union. I’m not sure what this ‘European Union’ thing is, but they sure talk about it a lot. Must be very rich and benevolent, cuz everyone around here is always asking it for money. Perhaps it will give some to me so I can buy my freedom from Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and find another field of sheep to retire into, preferably one without not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker and his bad habits.

After Misther Patchouli Da Fanny had told me about all the money they’d been given by the European Union and about how Floozie Da Smelley’d run up the uniform herself on her cheap portable sewing machine (‘as seen on TV’) and how the uniform hadn’t cost ‘em as much as a single penny, he went back into the flatpack pink building to do whatever it is he does in there. I was left wondering about all the money they’d saved and what they were gonna do with it, but my cogitations were interrupted by Finian Da Fabricator telling me it was time to pick up the biddies for bingo. Was I ready? he asked. I said if he asked me nicely I’d have his babies here and now, which made him laugh. He patted me affectionately on the dashboard and off we went. It’s amazing how much humans are talking to me these days, considering I’m a bus.

The drive from the pink flatpack building beside Da Smelley’s Cheap and Cheerful Junk-O-Rama to the first biddy took longer than usual (about ten minutes or so) on account of the road having slid down the hill and over a cliff during the previous night. I must say the weather here gives one pause to think, and I’m lucky to live in the garage so I don’t corrode down to a bucket of rust. I also have Finian Da Fabricator to thank for all the special goop he massages over my paintwork to keep it from harm. But as I was saying, ten minutes went by before we got to the first biddy’s little concrete bunker bungalow (during which time she’d complained to the call-centre at least eight times and rung Finian Da Fabricator’s mobile phone sixteen). Ten minutes was plenty of time to reflect on why the biddies always win the big money at bingo. According to Finian Da Fabricator, it has something to do with them knowing “where the bodies is buried”. He didn’t elaborate, merely sucked his teeth in that way of his and laughed in a dirty, knowing kind of way. I don’t like laughs like that and consider them impolite. I shall tell him how I feel later, after we’re home and he’s changed my oil.

I thought about what he said for a few minutes, and said to myself, of course the biddies knew where all the bodies are buried. The only thing they do, from the time they gets up ‘til the time they inflict ham grease and lump potatoes on whatever’s left of their families at night, is go to funerals (at least seven or eight a day if you count both sides of the island). And after each funeral they follow the coffins to the graveyards, just to make sure the burials are done proper and the bodies can’t climb out again and go back to their concrete bunker bungalows. It goes without saying they also go to the special dinners after the internments, especially when they’re not invited. Finian Da Fabricator says their greatest joy is finding out who else wasn’t invited and talking about it the next day at Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women. Missus Barley’s Hair Mess, Beryl’s only competition, has been temporarily put out of business, on account of she’s unmarried (in spite calling herself Missus) and turned up last week at Mass sporting a bump where a bump oughtn’t to be excepting on married ladies who’ve been told by the priest to go forth and multiply. And it weren’t just any old bump, either, but more of a bustle. From what Miss Cabbage says (and next to Missus Milly Da Fardle, she knows more about anyone than anybody) Missus Barley’ll be getting wot’s coming to her. She didn’t elaborate, and it didn’t make any sense to me, but then I’m only a bus.

Finian Da Fabricator said I misunderstood him about the bodies and the biddies’ bingo winnings. He also whispered out the side of his mouth (which, with a head shaped the way his is, is mostly unattractive) and advised me not to mention it around the biddies. For my health, is what he said. I do wish humans weren’t so mysterious. Perhaps he’ll tell me later. If he doesn’t, I’ll roll over his toes after he takes off those brown patent leather chauffeur’s boots Floozie Da Smelley made to go with his uniform.

We’ve arrived at the first of the concrete bunker bungalow wot the council builds special for old biddies. Miss Cabbage, who lives there in the back room with a manky yellow cat with bad breath, yelled at Finian Da Fabricator for keeping her waiting. She complained she’d had to wait so long, she had to go change her special garment (as she called it) at least twice. While we’re waiting for her to freshen herself up, I’m gonna put away my pencil and take a snooze. I’ll pick up later where I’ve left off, but only after all the biddies have been delivered safe and sound at the bingo parlour. So endeth the first part of the morning.