Day 39

Dear Diary,

An interesting night last night. Wot you could call an eye-opener if you had eyes. Seeing as I’m a bus (not an ordinary bus either, but a classic Daimler CVD6 with Burlington 32-seat custom coachwork), I have headlamps, instead. For the sake of accuracy, therefore, I should really write, “last night was a headlamp opener,” shouldn’t I? Hope you had a good laugh at that, Dear Diary. Never let it be said buses got no sense of humour.

But back to last night. No sooner had I put away my pencil and closed my headlamps, but the door to the garage opened and little Miss Candee Da Smelley-Fanny waltzed in, turning and twirling and ever so pleased with her tarty little self. I could see immediately the resemblance to Floozie Da Smelley, and thought to myself that the world (especially the male part of it) was in for a bumpy ride when her hormones get going, which by my reckoning’ll be in a coupl’a years at most, if not next month.

I was just about to decide whether I should pretend to sleep and hope she doesn’t see me, or to roll back over her with my back wheels and save the world a whole lot of bother. I was spared all the fuss of making such an important decision, however, when, wot do you know, but she came straight over to me and gave me a big old wet kiss on the centre of my nose, right on the ol’ badge. She threw her arms around me, as far as they’d go and snuggled right in like I was the most important person in her life. After a minute or so of this, she drew back, sat cross-legged on the floor in front of me and beamed up this great big goopy smile. And big old tears actually spurted outta her eye-sockets and streamed down her face, smudging the Next-Big-Underage-Sexpot-Pop-Sensation makeup the stylists had plastered all over her face and making her look like Dopey The Clown. She then snorted up the nose stuff wot’d dribbled down her front and into the drain in the centre of the garage. I shouldn’t say this, but she sounded like a great ol’ hog wot’s found truffle stink under his favourite tree.

I was just about to ask her if there was anything I could do to ease her pain (I remembered this term from when Finian Da Fabricator had the television on one day and was watching one of them big American chat show presenters wot loves to ease pain and think outside the boxes) when she said she was gonna move in with me, on account of there wasn’t enough room in the world for both her and her folks (being Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley) on account of all they wanted was to sell her off and get richer’n a dot.com billionaire.

Right then and there I looked at her real close and noticed the scary hairy warty sprout had somehow left her nose, and her skin was as smooth as a peach, only without the fuzz. I asked her about it as politely as possible and she laughed (a nice, clear laugh and not the other one I was used to) and said she’d glued it to her nose on purpose so the cameras’d mistake her for a warty hog. I was about to ask her, on account of I was interested in why, in this day and age, she’d wanted to look like a warty hog, when she up and said said she’d rather die and be boiled up in a mutton scrag ‘n’ liver surprise pies, which was one of Floozie Da Smelley’s signature dishes at her ‘Super Deluxe Self-Catering Accommodation Cabinettes’ (at least before she had to give ‘em back to Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu) rather’n become the Next-Big-Underage-Sexpot-Pop-Sensation. I admit I was floored by this, on account of that’s wot every little blond and perky little girl wants to be before she grows up, but she said she was serious. “I’ve got a mind, Mr. Bus,” she said in a voice extruding character and sensibleness. “I want to be an astrophysicist, not live in Astroturf and dye lambs pink and gold so they can be tortured by small children.” Right away I understood it wasn’t the lambs wot’d run away from her but her wot’d paid the lambs’ fares to the Faroe Islands so’s they could have a better life away from Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley and their money-making schemes. And I must admit I was impressed. But it seems she wasn’t done with telling me stuff, on account of the next thing outta her mouth had to do with her being allergic to the colour pink, especially when covered in it morning noon and night and from head to foot. I said I knew wot she felt like on account of that’s wot they painted me and she apologised over and over, ‘til I had to say “never mind, I’ve got over it.”

I complimented her on her new velvety smooth and intelligently serious voice, and she laughed and said it was her real one, on account of the screechy scratchy annoying one being only an act. I asked she wot she was planning to do next, now that she’d ruint her chances of becoming a Under-aged Singing Pop Sexpot Sensation, and she said she’d applied for a scholarship to a good school as far away as possible from the island, and had got it. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning, Mr. Bus,” she said. I asked wot her folks were gonna do without her, and she said they’d already bought a new little girl from one of them slave-trafficker websites, a little pink and perky girl wot loved pink and wanted all the goodies she’d throwed away. It seems Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley had already forgot all about her and had even told Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu they’d found a new little blond girl, and this time one peachy keeny perfect and without a great horrible hairy wart on the end of her nose. Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu was so excited he wet hisself right then and there, and the first thing he did was he gave Floozie Da Smelley back all her ‘Super Deluxe Self-Catering Accommodation Cabinettes’, complete with newer and better touron smelly leavings. So it looks like everything is settled and hunky-dory, as least as far as Cheap ‘n’ Cheerful Junk-By-The-Tonne and Floozie Da Smelley’s World Famous Pink-O-Drome Family Entertainment Park is concerned. And, of course, now that she’s proved her point, Miss Candee Da Smelley-Fanny’s gonna become an astrophysicist and change her name to C.D. Mellifluous-ffrontbottom and wear beige and let her hair grow mousie brown and speak only in modulated tones. I’ll miss her around here, but of course in a week or so I’ll be living with the Italian Greek God and his Ducati, which means my life’ll be different as well.

I’ve gotta lot to think about, so I’m gonna put away my pencil for a few hours and stare at the wall. Tomorrow is gonna be busy and I’ve still gotta tell you more about Missus Milly Da Fardle and wot happened to Finian Da Fabricator. Until then, so endeth this moment in time.