Day 32

Dear Diary,

Well, about an hour or so has passed since I last put my pencil away, and not a whole lot has changed. The traffic jam in the centre of town has got worse and it’s now like a convention of tractors all stopped this way and that. The farmers talked out the weather, which sometimes happens when we gets the rare day when the seasons don’t change every fifteen minutes or so. They also told each other more about what the politicians ought to do and what should be done about the world, after which they set to right all wot ‘their’ football team didn’t do right in yesterday’s cup final playoff. We’re talking fourth division here, with their team on the verge of being relegated for the fifth time in four years, which seems to be possible here. Say wot you will, you gotta love a town where everyone backs a loser. Takes real talent and determination that, especially when you consider how easy it is to go with the winners, and how much better you sleep at night. I, myself, always back winners, having long ago figured out the best way to pick ‘em. I simply wait ‘til the next day and see which team has won with the highest score, and I support ‘em ‘til just before the next match, when I abandon ‘em until after they win again. Perhaps my system is a little complicated for some, but then again I pride myself on my mathematical genius.

As I was saying, it’s been over an hour since Old Wanger Nose took off like a rocket in his black limousine, and it looks to me he’s still waiting where he was when Old Brick Shithouse had to stop or else plough into the tractors. You can see Old Wager Nose’s plenty upset at getting nowhere, on account of the steam fogging up the car’s tinted-black windows. And, of course, the sirens are getting closer by the minute. At least they should be, what with them having blazed away for as long as Old Wanger Nose’s limousine’s been snarled in the tractor jam. Strange they don’t seem to have got any closer. Perhaps they were coming over on the ferry from the mainland and they blew away with the tides. Might explain it; might not.

While I’m on the subject of the ferry, a few years ago some politician tried to initiate the building of a bridge stretching from the mainland to the island. It’s only about a quarter of a mile or so, which means in this day and age it’d be a doddle, engineering-wise. However, when said politician tried to introduce a bill in parliament to raise the money and make the plans official, he was voted down 147-1. Seems nobody in their right mind on the mainland wanted to face the consequences of the islanders getting off the island so easy. They said it’d be like opening the gates to the zoo. I had to laugh at that, I did. ‘Course, at the time I was trafficking ancient old people around the continent and had no idea I’d end up on the island, myself. Right in the middle of the zoo, down in the end where the baboons multiply.

So, as the situation stands at the moment, Old Wanger Nose is sitting in his car and waiting to meet his fate, whether he wants to or not. Finian Da Fabricator left the bus (being me) about ten minutes ago to buy hisself fresh trousers and socks and underwear and shoes. Even he had to admit what he did in the old ones smelled worse than the two-day-old fish paste pies Floozie Da Smelley bakes to sell at her Junk-By-The-Tonne. He told me before wandering off that he was too tired to breath through his mouth another minute. It’s a relief for all of us. One more minute and I would’a had to burn the driver’s seat, with him in it.

Naturally, since there wasn’t one of the biddies strapped in at the back who still has a sense of smell in her head (unless it involves inspecting a neighbour’s house for cleanliness and spotless windows), and they’re too cheap to put fresh batteries in their deaf aids, none of ‘em knew why Finian Da Fabricator was leaving the bus. “He’s deserted us, the Fecker,” yelled Missus Milly Da Fardle in her usual manner, and the others agreed. And since Finian Da Fabricator had forgot all about buying Missus Milly Da Fardle a new bunch of minutes for her cheap, pay-as-you-go mobile phone, there was no way she could ring the call centre and complain. Fortunately, the others had minutes left and phoned so many times that the call centre decided they’d earned extra holiday time and closed up early.

Personally, I don’t know what Missus Milly Da Fardle has to gripe about. After all, she was the one told Finian Da Fabricator to buy what she calls ‘an intimidating suit’ so he can march right into The Bank of Old Wanger Nose and ‘persuade’ Elmer Da Snog to bring her back the luggage Old Wanger Nose’d snatched from her. I think she had in mind busting his knees, but I doubt Finian Da Fabricator’ll be very good at that.

You may be interested to know what Howard Donald Da Fardle’s been doing all this time. The answer is, I don’t rightly know. We all saw how he failed to grab Missus Milly Da Fardle’s luggage from her and steal all her money. Not that he sees as it’s her money, more like it’s rightfully his, on account of him being young and vital and her being older’n the hunk of fossilised dinosaur poop not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker brought back from South Dakota, in America, way back when he was a kid and wasn’t saving his money for something better, such as a hour at the Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic down on the other side of the island, where all the sophisticated and worldly people live. Howard Donald Da Fardle’s always after money for nothing. So are most other folks. It’s only he’s more ugly and his nose whistles when he whines. I’m not entirely sure whether or not I’ll waste more pencil graphite on him, Dear Diary, excepting, of course, if something bad happens, and then you’ll want to know about it so everyone can praise him at his funeral.

I’ve just spotted Finian Da Fabricator emerge from the Misther Pradesh Da Raddesh’s Fine Discount Men’s Suits and Shoes, all dressed up in a new shiny green suit and looking like a pickle. I’m not sure if he’ll have much luck intimidating Elmer Da Snog, more like he’ll make bust a gusset laughing. I’ll put my pencil away for now and see how things go. As I always say, so endeth the last coupl’a minutes.