Day 52

Dear Diary,

As I started to say a coupl’a days ago, Howard Da Fardle first bumped into Miss Dweezee Da Minnie, as she was then, at her stall at the Post Christmas Partum Depression Bring ‘n’ Buy at The Women’s Institute’s Gymnasium and Birthing Centre, which is an annual celebration of the misery Mary went through after she’d spewed out Jesus in the Manger all them years ago. According to tradition, there’d never been nothing like the sturm und drang wot “Ol Mary’d went through, which is why there was nothing for it but for her to brung him up to be stuck on a tree. That, plus the fact that she was having a babbie without going through the fun and excitement of being de-virginated, which she thought was unfair. Being a bus I don’t understand such things, but buses never have their own babbies, on account new ones’re made in another room and brung to us fully growed. Buses, especially classic Daimler CVD6s with handcrafted Burlington 33-seat coachwork, don’t never have to live through toilet-training or adolescence or hormones or PMS. It’s in our contract: NO HUMAN SHITE. Let’s face it, shite is karma and us buses are spiritually advanced. On the other hand, we puts up with humans and lets ‘em do bad stuff to us, which means in some ways we’re not so very smart.

Thinking about all the growing-pains and messy stuff humans go through, there are a few, most likely those wot’ve spent time in studying the lives of buses, wot’ve taken to heart our practice of having babbies made and educated in a separate room. When humans do it, they calls it locking up the brats in boarding school and throwing away the keys and not letting ‘em out ‘til they’re old enough to join the army and get kilt in wars. However, few humans are that smart (being inflicted, as they are, with something called ‘sentimental attachment’) and aren’t evolved enough to know there’s a way outta misery if you’re determined to lead a happy and contented life. You can see I’m waxing philosophical today. Could be it’s the prospect of moving in with the Greek God part-Italian hunk of stud-muffin, Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his 2000cc red devil Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio, wot has my mind drifting up to more esoteric regions. Living around Misther Patchouli Da Fanny don’t do wonders to a brain. In fact, it’s a miracle I’ve got any left after all this time.

I don’t know why I’m wanting to write about the mess Miss Dweezee Da Minnie got into when she entangled her legs around as much of Howard DA Fardle as they could reach. And I’m sure if she knew he’d turn up at the Post Christmas Partum Depression Bring ‘n’ Buy at The Women’s Institute’s Gymnasium and Birthing Centre, her papa and mama would’a strapped her to her bed and never let her leave the house again. Mind you, I don’t know how much her papa, The Distinguished Herman Goring Da Minnie Mauser, could’ve done in the locking her up department, seeing as how at the time he was just about to be ate by the fish, but I’m thinking her mama, The Lovely Loretta Lookalika Da Minnie Mauser, might’ve thought of it once or twice. Or perhaps not. Miss Dweezee Da Minnie wasn’t the best daughter to have around, not if you were as respectable a member of The Women’s Institute as The Lovely Loretta Lookalika Da Minnie Mauser. Although Miss Dweezee Da Minnie was nice enough when she was in another room, I can’t say one wanted her to actually be in wot they calls ‘close proximity’. More like when she came into the room, you were automatically inclined to go out through the door she came in through, if you know wot I mean. There weren’t no particular reason for this as far as I could tell. Perhaps it’s wot they refer to as a ‘phenomena’, or perhaps a phenomenon. I think it’s not a good way to start of relationship.

Anyway, Miss Dweezee Da Minnie was let out by her mama, The Lovely Loretta Lookalika Da Minnie Mauser, to go to the bring ‘n’ buy on that fateful morning, and just as she’d set out her okra jelly doughnuts on those little Women’s Institute-approved doilies, Howard Da Fardle, who’d never saw a doughnut he’d pass by without eating, picked up her entire table and swallowed it hook, line and sinker. Miss Dweezee Da Minnie knew right than and there he was the man for her, on account of no one’d ever ate her food before. And they got married in a flash. Her mama gave her away, together with a box of doodads and some barely-used Tupperware boxes for transporting doughnuts and pasties to bring ‘n’ buys and car boot sales. And she thought to herself, “Hot diggidy, at least she’s outta my hair!” and she went and found herself fifteen or twenty lovers. Some biddies said on the bus (being me) that she wasn’t all that picky, but I say they were only jealous on account of The Women’s Institute wouldn’t let ‘em in the front door, and not even in the back.


I seem to remember Missus Milly Da Fardle being pleased as a bucket of cherry slops when she heard her second son Howard’d gone and married a member in good standing of The Women’s Institute, as well as being she was also the daughter of The Distinguished Herman Goring Da Minnie Mauser. Missus Milly Da Fardle’d never been introduced to the man, on account of she was scum, but she’d always admired strong men who thought they were better’n her. In fact, I heard her on the bus (being me) remark to Miss Cabbage (this was back when they was still speaking to each other) that ‘the fecker’s outta my hair, I’m gonna wash my windows” which was similar to wot The Lovely Loretta Lookslika Da Minne Mauser’d said about Miss Dweezee Da Minnie, and it proves it were a marriage made in heaven, or at least the closest thing you’ll ever find to it on this end of the island.

I see I haven’t yet got to talking about wot happened at The Funeral Of The Year, wot they had for The Distinguished Herman Goring Da Minnie Mauser after he was ate by a fish. I promise I’ll get to it next time. Promise, promise, cross my tailpipe. So endeth another lovely session with you, Dear Diary.