Day 60

Dear Diary,

First thing this morning, wot do you know but Floozie Da Smelley waltzes in the garage door without so much as a by your leave. I had a suspicion about maybe she had something wot was wrong with her (I’m talking about something more’n usual) when she came straight up to me and embraces me all passionate (like I’m not used to, at least not since Finian Da Fabricator run off with Missus Milly Da Fardle’s luggageful of money along with Howard Da Fardle and Elmer Da Snog). She then plants a big kiss on the middle of my grill and sticks her tongue is as far as it’ll go. Believe me it weren’t altogether as pleasant as I wished it could’a been, and for that I don’t know whether to blame myself or lay it all on to her. I may be talking like a hick on account of that’s wot they asked me for, and after all they’s been paying the bills (albeit with funny money), but I’m still at heart a classic Daimler CVD6 33-seater bus with handcrafted Burlington coachwork and fine leather upholstery wot was made by forty-seven ancient blind men working twenty-nine hour days down in Morocco. Unfortunately as you may have gathered by now, wot with the biddies dancing the incontinental on my seats every time they goes shopping or to bingo or to Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women or to Mass at Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan’s Church of The Immaculate Septum on the bottom side of the island where they really don’t belong, not with them not practicing wot he preaches, my upholstery is looking worse then it did when a cow was still wearing it. But, never mind, I have it on good authority that Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota, the part-Italian Greek God Hunk Gigolo wots gonna be my new owner has loads of money and likes to spend it on wot he calls his weehicles. Benvolio Da Trampolio, his Ducati, has told me loads about Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota on the days when he’s passed the time of day with me with me in my garage. It seems Ol’ Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota has the hots for The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and the two have a serious case of passing back and forth wot they calls bodily fluid every chance they gets. Anyway, Benvolio Da Trampolio says I’m not to worry about my future or about the sorry state of my upholstery. Once I’m living in their garage, I’ll be restored completely, and after that no one wot wears Depends’ll get within a mile of my seats. Sounds brutal to me, as well as more’n a little discriminatory, but I’ll smell better for the ladies and that balances the budget, as they says.

But back to Floozie Da Smelley. As I started to say, Dear Diary, she came in this morning before I was properly woked up and got all-intimate with my physical features. Wasn’t nothing personal about it, though, on account of Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota’d just come by and paid the balance on wot he owed for purchasing me. And it were in cash too, not to mention the money were in actual banknotes wot are legal in real banks, and not just in The Bank of Old Wanger Nose. Anyway, I guess she’s not used to having wot they calls legal tender, cuz she could now go to shops and boutiques outside of those wot she runs at Floozie Da Smelley’s Junk-By-The-Tonne and buy some decent shite for a change. No wonder the poor slag was in a good mood. I’d like to say I’ll miss her and Ol’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny when I’m gone, but if I did I’d be lying.

By the way, Ol’ Benvolio Da Trampolio asked me if’n I was all packed up with enough fuel to take me to the other side of the island and on the ferry leading over to wot they calls civilisation. I said something along the lines of “you’d better fucking believe it,” only I put it more polite and off-hand. I wouldn’t want ‘em to feel I’m over-anxious or anything like that. Anyway, I have a feeling they could be driving me away any day now.

I don’t know wot this means, but Benvolio Da Trampolio came to me in a dream last night. He started in telling me something about my new life and in the dream he sorta hinted something about me not hanging on to my past. ‘Course, it were a dream, so I couldn’t very well answer back and ask wot he meant and then expect an answer back. At least in my dreams, if you say you wants a rim job on your tyres you gets a pickle shoved up your tailpipe. Not literally, of course, but you know wot dreams are like. Anyway, I had the feeling he was talking about you, Dear Diary, and that you weren’t gonna be invited along for the ride. I hope that’s not the case, on account of I quite enjoy your company, but to be on the safe side I’ll try to finish up with a few important matters so they won’t get lost for all eternity.

I’m gonna put my pencil away for a while and think about things. Don’t worry, however, Dear Diary, I’ll be back tomorrow and tell you more of wot’s what. As I’m always fond of saying, so endeth another day, or at least a little bit of it.