Day 34

Dear Diary,

Well, everything’s going crazy here, but never mind that. If it’s the last thing I do, and even if I’m discovered writing this stuff and my pencil’s taken away and I’m sent to Misther Florian Da Blossom’s Discount Used Tyre Emporium on the other side of the good end of the island to be torn apart and sold for scrap, I’ve simply gotta finish telling you about what happened in the secret stainless steel laboratory in back of Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’.

Picture this if you will. There was Missus Milly Da Fardle standing open-mouthed and speechless (which has gotta be something of a record), hiding behind the purpose-built eavesdropping screen and listening to Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu and Misther Patchouli Da Fanny discussing what flavour cat food they’re gonna make outta both Miss Louella Da Bunkle and Miss Merideller Da Mento, and she says to herself, “Oh My God,” she says, “I just remembered the Misses Purdy, all three of them, died and went to Hell (God rest their souls) this morning, and I clean forgot about it on account of my kettle started in boiling to beat the band and I had to make tea before the water burnt.” And at that very moment, the wide sliding door at the back opened and a triple-wide coffin (no doubt containing the Misses Purdy, who were, after all, conjoined twins - or as they preferred, Siamese triplets, on account of it making them sound more exotic and well-travelled) was wheeled in with the help of an electric motor. Steering it was none other than Missus Milly Da Fardle’s second eldest son, Howard Donald Da Fardle, who just a moment earlier had been taking out the remains of Miss Merideller Da Mento. It occurred to Missus Milly Da Fardle that he’d never worked so fast in his life and wasn’t it a blessing he’d finally found his calling.

Well, the motorised trolley transporting the triple-wide coffin of the Misses Purdy pulled up in the middle of the room. Howard Donald Da Fardle was about to open the lid so’s Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu could see what a special treat they was getting’, when he was told sharpish to finish the other task first, being the one he hadn’t started, in other words, dumpin’ the other corpus delicious (as they called it, on account of the cats’ll eat it up at a gulp and then lick their chops to beat the band) into a black plastic body baggie and taking her out to the meat wagon. Right away, old Howard Donald Da Fardle looked abashed and ashamed of hisself for not doin’ his job properly, which amazed Missus Milly Da Fardle no end, on account of he’d never done any job properly in his entire life and had never before felt ashamed about nothin’. He immediately parked the trolley with the triple-wide coffin to one side of the room and ran out to the van and grabbed another special made black plastic body bag. Quick as a flash he brung it back into the secret stainless steel body-stuffing laboratory and filled it full of old Miss Louella Da Bunkle, warts, sags and messed-up hair and all. He threw the bag over his shoulder, which impressed Missus Milly Da Fardle no end, on account of she’d never seen him lift anything at all in his life, other than a pint of beer or a gallon of not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker’s potheen, what he makes from the secret recipe owld Fingus Da Flatulator left him after he blowed hisself up. Howard Donald Da Fardle then ran it out to the van and threw it on top of Miss Merideller Da Mento, which made both corpses gurgle in an unpleasant way. ‘Course, by now they was both starting to melt and do unpleasant things, but, what the Hell, all cat food stinks nasty after it’s been through a cat and out through the other end, so nobody’ll notice anything they shouldn’t. It’s probably called denial or maybe survival, cuz anyone who’s ever emptied a cat box’ll know you hafta breath through your mouth to avoid being suffocated to death. However, folks around these parts wot keep cats lets ‘em do their thing on the neighbours roses, which is why gardens aren’t so pretty here and don’t go winning the big awards from the National Garden Scheme, or whatever it is wot refuses to inspect wot passes for herbaceous borders over here on the island.

But back to Missus Milly Da Fardle’s dilemma. She was dying, she was, to jump out from behind the special eavesdropping screen and scare Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu half to death, and then to bleed them dry as Miss Cabbage’s never-touched-place with the carefully thought up blackmailing plans she’d hatched especially for them. However, she was dying even worse to see what the Misses Purdy looked like naked and on the slab, and knew if she played all her cards at the moment, that particular wish’d probably never come true. So what she did was bite her lip and tell herself to wait as patient as a caped crow wot’s seen a baby left out in its pram and is biding its time for the mommy to turn her back and fetch herself a nice cuppa tea and leave the baby to its own devices. This happens on this end of the island oftener’n a pub is filled up with gas by closing time. ‘Course, it’s hardly ever reported to the social services on account of nobody wants to lose their benefits, which as everyone knows is their divine rights. Social services don’t understand about the importance of a cuppa tea, especially when the soaps is on the telly. They’re always for putting babies first, which is silly when you think about it. Everyone knows you can always get a new one o’ them, but once the soaps is gone, they’ll never be seen again (at least not until later in the afternoon, but by then the neighbours have already seen ‘em twice and so they’re like yesterday’s news. You know wot I mean, they’re like re-wearing last week’s underwear wot’s been flashed in public at Marcela Da Splodge’s Fancy-Prancy Club behind the Women’s Institute, the time you made it under the piano with Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota, the part-Italian gigolo wot teaches the tango in his spare time.

Needless to say, you’ve not heard the last of Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota, on account of in real life he’s the Italian Greek God Stallion Hunk with the arrogant Ducati (wot thinks he’s better’n the piss wot comes out of a celebrity, which is stupid cuz nobody’s that good) wot bought me cheap from Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley the other day.

I’m sorry to interrupt, Dear Diary, but I’m gonna hafta postpone how the Misses Purdy ended up as dead as Mrs. Emily Da Onion’s heart and in the special secret stainless steel laboratory in Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’ and wot Missus Milly Da Fardle thought of when they she seen ‘em naked. And it’s a shame she had to go looking at ‘em so critical, on account of it shows the kind of person she is. Anyway, I’ve gotta close for now. As I always say, so endeth these beautiful moments with you.