Day 27

Dear Diary,

I’ve got suspicious twinges, ziggings and pingings up and down my spine, and they all started with the leer Misther Patchouli Da Fanny gave me when he came into the garage with Finian Da Flatulator. The latter, by the way, was looking paler than if a vampire had drained all his blood to make black pudding, and chattered worse than owld Fingus Da Flatulator after a night swimming in his vat of potheen, which was his favourite form of exercise before he blowed hisself up. Anyway, poor Finian Da Fabricator avoided looking at me, and I could’a swore he had tears in his eyes. And, as Misther Patchouli Da Fanny walked around me rubbing his hands together and harumping to hisself with glee, Finian Da Fabricator went straight to the shelf where he keeps his polystyrene container full of special coffee. Drank it straight down, he did, in one gulp, and then started bawling like a babby wots got the cowlicks.

Whatever Misther Patchouli Da Fanny said to Finian Da Fabricator must’ve been pretty bad, and you better believe I wasted no time in slipping my breaks and running back over Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s big toes. Both of ‘em. You should’a heard the racket. First two delightful little crunches (meaning I’d hit my targets), followed by whooping and hollering and cursing such as I’ve never heard in my life, not even from not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker after he’s got his whatsit caught in his zipper, which is usually every morning.

Well, Dear Diary, no sooner did Misther Patchouli Da Fanny start cursing me than who should enter the garage but Floozie Da Smelley. And you’d better believe she was angrier than a cat wot’s got his tail in the vegetable shredder. Screaming and yelling, screeching even worse than that morning with perfect little Candee Da Smelley-Fanny, just before she traded her with Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu at his Special Prized Collectables Market for the two hundert portable toilets.

By the way, Dear Diary, I know you’re dying to hear about what happened after Floozie Da Smelley came into the garage, her face redder than a beetroot and steam coming outta her ears, but it’s occurred to me I’ve not told you what became of the portable toilets. Last time I mentioned ‘em was when Floozie Da Smelley’s built two hundert little picket-fenced enclosures for the toilets to live in. Remember that? Did I tell you that the ones at the front (up where tourists coming into the Cheap ‘n’ Cheerful Junk-O-Rama can see ‘em and be tempted to rent ‘em by the night or month or hour) have genuine green used plastic grass lawns and little pots of plastic flowers? Just as pretty as pretty can be, they are. And you can bet the tourists can’t fork over their money fast enough so they can rent the ‘genuine quaint holiday cottages with sea views’ at the special discount rate, which don’t include breakfast or entertainments. And did I also tell you Floozie Da Smelley’s painted ‘em all pink? Pinker than even the pink flatpack building (which, by the way, I’ve still not seen the inside of), and with glittery gold doors. ‘Course, she was so excited about all the money she was gonna rake in, she forgot they were only portable toilets to begin with and nobody’d bothered to empty ‘em out. I’m thinking that has something to do with the ‘special atmosphere’ mentioned in the brochure. As far as I can tell, the tourists think the ‘cabinettes’ are the bees’ knees and that the smell has curative powers brought by the bog faeries, but then again, they’re all Floozie Da Smelley’s regular customers at the Cheap ‘n’ Cheerful Junk-O-Rama, so that’s not exactly a recommendation.

But I’m getting ahead of myself (or possibly behind). The problem is that strange things are happening and I want to commit as much as possible to paper before it gets downright disagreeable around here, if you know what I mean.

Where to begin, where to begin? Well, since Misther Patchouli Da Fanny was the first one to ruin my day, it’ll have to be with him. You know what he did? HE SOLD ME! And to the first person who took out his wallet and looked at him cross-eyed. Can you believe it? It seems this Italian god-like creature wearing a black leather suit and a red helmet with gold lightning bolts on the sides (Finian Da Fabricator’s description, not mine), was riding his very Italian and stuck-up Ducati motorcycle past the pink flatpack building this morning when he happened to spy me through the window in the garage. At least, that’s wot he said, but being that there are no windows on account of I’m a very private individual wot doesn’t like being spied upon, he must have eyes that can penetrate flatpack plastic (maybe he’s SuperDucatiMan). Anyway, he caught sight of me somehow (or else it was my charisma radiating through the walls) and he decided there and then he just had to have me for his own. Well, Misther Patchouli Da Fanny told him he’d got six or seven fully paid-up-in-advance bookings for me, on account of my being so popular with the biddies, but the Italian Greek God said “no problemo, boss. You can deliver the bus next Tuesday.” Whereby Misther Patchouli Da Fanny reached out his hand and snatched the money before you could say “it’s a deal”, and then said (yes, I know, I know) “it’s a deal.” So it seems I’m gonna be sharing what’s left of my life with a stuck-up, arrogant Ducati, who’s already looked me up and down and called me ‘granddad’. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry or ask Finian Da Fabricator to roll me over a cliff – a big one, not the puny one out in back.

Well, Dear Diary, I’ve been crying my headlamps out for the last hour, and Finian Da Fabricator (bless his heart) is polishing my paintwork and muttering sweet nothings into my rear view mirror (which is where us buses keeps our ears). I’m too upset to worry about Floozie Da Smelley’s conniption fit or why she was acting like it was her time of the month. It was quite funny, however, her coming into the garage all steaming and hysterical like that, so when I recover myself and do some nice things to Finian Da Fabricator, I’ll get back to you. As I’ve always said, so endeth the time since I said it before.