Dear Diary,
I’m still in the middle of the special trip to the bank with Missus Milly Da Fardle and Mrs. Emily Da Onion and Miss Cabbage, and I must say I’m gonna miss the regulars wot use the community bus service for nefarious purposes. I’m constantly learning new things to be ashamed of.
I’ve a feeling this day’s gonna be longer than a donkey’s wanger, but you’ll have to bear with me. It’s bound to end someday, if we survive, that is. It goes without saying that there was the usual array of cheery greetings when we arrived at Missus Milly Da Fardle’s concrete bunker bungalow first thing, as well as the usual number of text messages demanding that Finian Da Fabricator ring the call centre immediately if not sooner to get told off. Some of them biddies started complaining about the service as early as five in the morning, even though the bus (meaning Finian Da Fabricator and me) weren’t scheduled to arrive until between half past nine and twenty-five minutes to ten. Oh, well, I guess they’ve not got much going on, what with them being so old and all. Mind you, when I was transporting ancient old crocks ‘round the continent for Golden Twilight Years Tours, they were never rude or mean, but then again (as they admitted to me) they were so relieved at having escaped the old peoples’ Sunset Haven Dumping Grounds their children’d selected for ‘em that everything else looked bright and sunny. Haha, they were especially pleased with theirselves on account of they’d taken all their saved-up money with ‘em on the tour, as well, which always made their loving offspring fume and rant when they found out. I wish the biddies around here had gone on one of them tours. Might’a learned how to smile. With Miss Cabbage and Missus Milly Da Fardle and Mrs. Emily Da Onion, it’s like they’ve stored up eighty or ninety years of misery and want to share the joy before they’re planted in the ground and someone plants a stake through their hearts so they can’t climb back out again. Sorry, Dear Diary, if I’m speaking out of turn. I’d apologise in person to the biddies if they’d stop complaining long enough to let me. Now, where was I?
Ah, yes, I remember. Finian Da Fabricator and I had stopped to collect Missus Milly Da Fardle and Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion at Missus Milly Da Fardle’s concrete bunker bungalow. Right away they informed us all about how miserable the weather was, as though Finian Da Fabricator and I hadn’t been out in it already for about an hour. They then scratched my paintwork by banging my sides with their zimmers to scrape off the mud, after which they attacked Finian Da Fabricator’s shins for daring to help ‘em aboard. They scratched all the skin off his face with their claws when he fastened their seatbelts, which is what they always do when they think he’s gonna do stuff to ‘em on a day they hadn’t put on clean underwear over the dirty pair. And then they beat him up a third time for good measure when he started me up, on account of they said he was speeding, and this was before we’d even pulled out of the driveway. And when, finally, old Finian Da Fabricator was able to put his foot on the accelerator, which meant he was occupied with his driving and couldn’t turn their deaf aides all the way up to squealing like they deserved, they all phoned the call centre on their pay-as-you-go mobile phones their grandchildren had bought ‘em, and said they were being kidnapped (for the seventieth time that week) by an ailing terrierist. One of these days the call centre is gonna change their complaints number to unlisted and pay for an actual ailing terrierist to hijack the biddies and sell ‘em off as sex slaves. If this does happen, I can only hope they don’t hold poor Finian Da Fabricator hostage and parade him naked on a heathen TV station. No one’d ransom him, they’d be too busy choking on their breakfast or laughing themselves into a hernia, so he’d be doomed and I’d be sorry about the way he’d be tortured into little pieces. I doubt very much if anybody’d want him for their sex slave, not even Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien or Myrtleen Da Patootie, not that she’s speaking to him at the moment.
I don’t know why I’m so introspective today. I guess I’m still worried about what the Italian Greek God and his Ducati are gonna do to me after they takes me to live with them. At least with Misther Patchouli Da Fanny I can always expect the stupid to happen on any given day. It’s nice to know what to expect.
Back to Missus Milly Da Fardle and Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion (who’s already wasted no time in leaking all over my new upholstery). In spite of their best efforts to intimidate Finian Da Fabricator into driving ‘em off a cliff to give ‘em something else to fuss about, we finally arrived at The Bank of Old Wanger Nose. Waiting outside and rubbing his hands together like the cat wot’s figured out how to use the can opener, was Elmer Da Snog, and who should be standing next to him but Howard Donald Da Fardle, the second eldest son of Missus Milly Da Fardle. I can’t rightly tell you what his expression was doing, cuz all rumours to the contrary, I’ve still got some class, in spite of my having lowered my expectations of myself with not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker from time to time.
Missus Milly Da Fardle scuttled sideways up to her second eldest son as fast as her zimmer’d take her and demanded to know what the feck he was doing consorting with the likes of Elmer Da Snog. He answered “I’m here to protect your interests, mam,” and she yelled back, “Feck off, Howard Donald Da Fardle, and go and make me grandchildren like Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan at the Church of The Immaculate Septum instructed you to before you’re too fat to find your winky.” It were not a pleasant scene, wot with them two yelling at each other and carrying on. It made me bilious watching her wrinkled skin get so agitated and his blubber bouncing around every time she hit him with her luggage. Eventually, however, Old Wanger Nose appeared from the shadows and a dreadful silence fell over the earth. Even I, who’ve seen practically everything human’s got to offer, was impressed. Old Wanger Nose smiled an awful smile, exposing all his real diamond teeth, and snatched Missus Milly Da Fardle’s luggage from where it was imbedded in Howard Donald Da Fardle’s stomach. He didn’t say nothin’ at all, but merely turned on his patent leather shoes (size 3) and vanished back into the bank. Missus Milly Da Fardle screeched at him to stop at once, that he had her luggage wot she bought at a special discount sale at Floozie Da Smelley’s Cheap ‘n’ Cheerful Junk-by-the-Tonne. But he said nothing at all.
In fact, Dear Diary, nobody said nothing, and it was the first time I’ve seen biddies at a loss for words. I could’a cut the atmosphere with a knife, if I had one instead of a pencil. Anyway, since I can’t write anymore ‘til something happens, I’ll put my pencil away and enjoy the moment. As I so often say, so endeth another exciting half of the morning.
I’m still in the middle of the special trip to the bank with Missus Milly Da Fardle and Mrs. Emily Da Onion and Miss Cabbage, and I must say I’m gonna miss the regulars wot use the community bus service for nefarious purposes. I’m constantly learning new things to be ashamed of.
I’ve a feeling this day’s gonna be longer than a donkey’s wanger, but you’ll have to bear with me. It’s bound to end someday, if we survive, that is. It goes without saying that there was the usual array of cheery greetings when we arrived at Missus Milly Da Fardle’s concrete bunker bungalow first thing, as well as the usual number of text messages demanding that Finian Da Fabricator ring the call centre immediately if not sooner to get told off. Some of them biddies started complaining about the service as early as five in the morning, even though the bus (meaning Finian Da Fabricator and me) weren’t scheduled to arrive until between half past nine and twenty-five minutes to ten. Oh, well, I guess they’ve not got much going on, what with them being so old and all. Mind you, when I was transporting ancient old crocks ‘round the continent for Golden Twilight Years Tours, they were never rude or mean, but then again (as they admitted to me) they were so relieved at having escaped the old peoples’ Sunset Haven Dumping Grounds their children’d selected for ‘em that everything else looked bright and sunny. Haha, they were especially pleased with theirselves on account of they’d taken all their saved-up money with ‘em on the tour, as well, which always made their loving offspring fume and rant when they found out. I wish the biddies around here had gone on one of them tours. Might’a learned how to smile. With Miss Cabbage and Missus Milly Da Fardle and Mrs. Emily Da Onion, it’s like they’ve stored up eighty or ninety years of misery and want to share the joy before they’re planted in the ground and someone plants a stake through their hearts so they can’t climb back out again. Sorry, Dear Diary, if I’m speaking out of turn. I’d apologise in person to the biddies if they’d stop complaining long enough to let me. Now, where was I?
Ah, yes, I remember. Finian Da Fabricator and I had stopped to collect Missus Milly Da Fardle and Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion at Missus Milly Da Fardle’s concrete bunker bungalow. Right away they informed us all about how miserable the weather was, as though Finian Da Fabricator and I hadn’t been out in it already for about an hour. They then scratched my paintwork by banging my sides with their zimmers to scrape off the mud, after which they attacked Finian Da Fabricator’s shins for daring to help ‘em aboard. They scratched all the skin off his face with their claws when he fastened their seatbelts, which is what they always do when they think he’s gonna do stuff to ‘em on a day they hadn’t put on clean underwear over the dirty pair. And then they beat him up a third time for good measure when he started me up, on account of they said he was speeding, and this was before we’d even pulled out of the driveway. And when, finally, old Finian Da Fabricator was able to put his foot on the accelerator, which meant he was occupied with his driving and couldn’t turn their deaf aides all the way up to squealing like they deserved, they all phoned the call centre on their pay-as-you-go mobile phones their grandchildren had bought ‘em, and said they were being kidnapped (for the seventieth time that week) by an ailing terrierist. One of these days the call centre is gonna change their complaints number to unlisted and pay for an actual ailing terrierist to hijack the biddies and sell ‘em off as sex slaves. If this does happen, I can only hope they don’t hold poor Finian Da Fabricator hostage and parade him naked on a heathen TV station. No one’d ransom him, they’d be too busy choking on their breakfast or laughing themselves into a hernia, so he’d be doomed and I’d be sorry about the way he’d be tortured into little pieces. I doubt very much if anybody’d want him for their sex slave, not even Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien or Myrtleen Da Patootie, not that she’s speaking to him at the moment.
I don’t know why I’m so introspective today. I guess I’m still worried about what the Italian Greek God and his Ducati are gonna do to me after they takes me to live with them. At least with Misther Patchouli Da Fanny I can always expect the stupid to happen on any given day. It’s nice to know what to expect.
Back to Missus Milly Da Fardle and Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion (who’s already wasted no time in leaking all over my new upholstery). In spite of their best efforts to intimidate Finian Da Fabricator into driving ‘em off a cliff to give ‘em something else to fuss about, we finally arrived at The Bank of Old Wanger Nose. Waiting outside and rubbing his hands together like the cat wot’s figured out how to use the can opener, was Elmer Da Snog, and who should be standing next to him but Howard Donald Da Fardle, the second eldest son of Missus Milly Da Fardle. I can’t rightly tell you what his expression was doing, cuz all rumours to the contrary, I’ve still got some class, in spite of my having lowered my expectations of myself with not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker from time to time.
Missus Milly Da Fardle scuttled sideways up to her second eldest son as fast as her zimmer’d take her and demanded to know what the feck he was doing consorting with the likes of Elmer Da Snog. He answered “I’m here to protect your interests, mam,” and she yelled back, “Feck off, Howard Donald Da Fardle, and go and make me grandchildren like Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan at the Church of The Immaculate Septum instructed you to before you’re too fat to find your winky.” It were not a pleasant scene, wot with them two yelling at each other and carrying on. It made me bilious watching her wrinkled skin get so agitated and his blubber bouncing around every time she hit him with her luggage. Eventually, however, Old Wanger Nose appeared from the shadows and a dreadful silence fell over the earth. Even I, who’ve seen practically everything human’s got to offer, was impressed. Old Wanger Nose smiled an awful smile, exposing all his real diamond teeth, and snatched Missus Milly Da Fardle’s luggage from where it was imbedded in Howard Donald Da Fardle’s stomach. He didn’t say nothin’ at all, but merely turned on his patent leather shoes (size 3) and vanished back into the bank. Missus Milly Da Fardle screeched at him to stop at once, that he had her luggage wot she bought at a special discount sale at Floozie Da Smelley’s Cheap ‘n’ Cheerful Junk-by-the-Tonne. But he said nothing at all.
In fact, Dear Diary, nobody said nothing, and it was the first time I’ve seen biddies at a loss for words. I could’a cut the atmosphere with a knife, if I had one instead of a pencil. Anyway, since I can’t write anymore ‘til something happens, I’ll put my pencil away and enjoy the moment. As I so often say, so endeth another exciting half of the morning.
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