Day 25

Dear Diary,

We’ve finally dropped off all the biddies at the bingo parlour, which means Finian Da Fabricator’s got a couple of hours or so to see both not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker about refilling the barrel of potheen he carries in my boot and Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien, who promised real nice to clean his pipes and give him a discount. It seems he had some sorta tiff with Myrtleen Da Patootie and she’s not doin’ nothin’ for him, much less giving him a special offer on her pipe-cleaning service. I’m gonna miss old Myrtleen and hope she gets off her hump real soon, cuz she’s nice to me and the feel of her sliding back and forth on my seats makes me feel better’n one of Finian Da Fabricator’s lube jobs, and that’s saying something.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. As I said, we eventually picked up Miss Cabbage, which was a chore unto itself being as she’s so fat in a wobbly sort of way. And she also got real stroppy with Finian Da Fabricator when he tried to boost her behind when she was hauling herself aboard. It didn’t help that I was laughing so hard my floor shook like an earthquake. And since it was slippery from Finian Da Fabricator’s ministrations with the wax this morning, the old Miss Cabbage slithered this way and that and banged her shins something terrible on the back seat. Of course, being that (as a matter of principle) she always sits way up front with Missus Milly Da Fardle, on account of them being more special than the others, she was most displeased about finding herself at the rear. But by the time she regained her senses after banging her shins, Finian Da Fabricator had not only strapped her in real tight where she was, but had run to the driver’s seat way up front and had started up my engine. Was sorta amusing, the drive between Miss Cabbage’s concrete bunker bungalow and ancient Missus Drain’s (which was the second stop). There was Finian Da Fabricator, driving real careful so as not to slide off the road in spots where the slurry wagon leaked, and trying to ignore Miss Cabbage’s yelling and cursing. Lucky for all of us she’d forgot to recharge the batteries in her mobile phone, or else she would’a had the police down on us for kidnapping and making her bang her shins on the back seat. It also occurred to me we (Finian Da Fabricator and I) were giving her something else to talk about for the rest of the day besides the weather and who’s been poisoned to death by the free lunches at the day hospital and who’s died and is lying prostrate in the funeral parlour waiting on them to visit so they can be buried in peace.

It was nice seeing ancient Missus Drain again. She is owld Fingus Da Flatulator’s older sister, or at least she was before he went and blew hisself up. Whenever she used to come and visit us, she’d always bring a fresh batch of stale brak and a plate of boiled ham and cabbage, which she’d share with owld Fingus Da Flatulator along with a pint or three of potheen. Afterwards, she liked to come back into the field and spend a coupla hours sitting in me and telling me everything that was going on round the island. ‘Course, I know she was only talking to herself, which was a habit of hers, and didn’t know whether I was dead or alive or had ears to listen, but I enjoyed it anyway. Being that she loved thinking the worst of everyone more’n anything, I got to know lots of stuff that weren’t none of my business. Since owld Fingus Da Flatulator went and blew hisself up I’ve been out of the loop, as it were, which was why I was so happy the minute I saw ancient Missus Drain clamber aboard. I say clamber on account of her legs in like a crabs, only she’s too froze up with artichokes to scuttle like she used to. Sweet thing, she’s also got more leaks to her bottom that a sieve, but unlike some of the others who don’t admit to it, she always brings a rubber sheet to sit on.

Ancient Missus Drain was much preoccupied this morning with the state of Thelma O’Leary’s morals. Personally, I didn’t know she had any what with her disappearing the way she did with both Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Finian Da Fabricator at the same time. Turns out, however, ancient Missus Drain wasn’t talking about morals at all. Seems her teeth slipped and what she really meant to say was Muriel’s. I was just about to pipe up and ask what Muriel’s was when she was at home, when Missus Cabbage, her eyes aflame and her purple prune face quivering away to beat the band, shrieked from her seat in the back where Finian Da Fabricator had strapped her in. “Muriel,” she screeched. “Don’t talk to me about Muriel.” And for a second or two there was complete silence of the kind I’ve not heard since Thelma O’Leary’s knickers fell off during Floozie Da Smelley’s illegal wedding to Misther Patchouli Da Fanny.

It was about then that we pulled up and stopped in front of Missus Milly Da Fardle’s concrete bunker bungalow, the one her second eldest son, the one they calls Howard Donald Da Fardle, painted lavender with white trim. Missus Milly Da Fardle climbed aboard, thwacking poor Finian Da Fabricator (who’d gotten out to help her with her luggage) in both knees with her zimmer. She clearly was in no mood for trifling and the instant she got into the bus (being me, in case you’ve forgot) she frowned and pinched her face and scolded Miss Cabbage for sitting all strapped in at the back. “Come up to the front, Mary-Eileen,” she snapped. “I’ve got news for you and I’m not gonna yell it all the way to the back.” She didn’t even ask Miss Cabbage why she was sitting in the back in the first place, which let us know how important her news was.

The next ten or fifteen minutes were taken up with Miss Cabbage struggling to unfasten her seatbelt, a task that would’a been easier had she let Finian Da Fabricator help her out. As it was, the moment she approached him, she let him have it right between the legs where men keeps their golden moments, whereupon he let out a howl that would’a made a banshee proud and sank to his knees. Needless to say, I never did find out about Muriel and why Miss Cabbage was so dead set against her.

By the way, the reason Missus Milly Da Fardle was carrying her luggage around with her was to carry her bingo winnings when she wins everything later on.

The remainder of the journey was dead quiet, with the exception of Finian Da Fabricator, who whimpered the entire way. As for the biddies, they sat all purse-lipped like a bunch of raisins with purple hair and didn’t even look at each other.

I can’t wait to take ‘em all back home in a couple of hours. Hopefully, by then Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien would’a helped Finian Da Fabricator out of his troubles and the biddies might’a got tanked up on potheen and’ll be in a garrulous mood. I hate not knowing what’s going on, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, Dear Diary, I’m putting away my pencil for a bit and will get back to you later, after we get home. So, as I always say (more or less), so endeth another morning.