Day 62

Dear Diary,

I am so excited I could simply wet the floor and deny it ever happened! A few minutes ago The Widow Fartie Da Whistle removed the bandages from my headlamps and held up a looking glass for me to see how my new makeover has transformed me. I am simply awestruck and can honestly say I had forgotten what a handsome bus I was. After spending what felt like half a lifetime submerged in the twilight world of Misther Patchouli Da Fanny, Floozie Da Smelley, and their low-life acquaintances, and being kitted out to resemble a pink powder puff on monster doughnuts, I’m ashamed to admit I had (as they say) sunk down to their level. Not that there’s anything wrong with living La Vida Basura (as the song says), Dear Diary, but if you review what I’ve written over the past month or so you’ll see just what a blathering idiot I’ve become. Another week and I’d have turned into a Neanderthal, and for one born a classic Daimler CVD6 with custom-made Burlington 33-seater coachwork, that is about as shameful as you can get. I am dreadfully sorry and more embarrassed than I can say. If I ever ran into any of my builders, I’d hafta hang my head beneath my wheels and hope they were looking in the opposite direction. It’s some sort of miracle that Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota recognised my classical beauty beneath what had come to resemble a painted trollop and deigned to give me another chance! Believe me, one of the first things I shall do upon arriving at my new home is apologise to his Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio. He may be Italian and, as such, as dazzlingly stylish as the midsummer sun, but he is also a gentleman among gentleman. That I called him ‘Mr. Hot Stuff’ (among other things) is to my eternal discredit.

As you may have gathered, Dear Diary, I have undertaken to shed the abysmal and loathsome speech patterns I acquired as a favour to Floozie Da Smelley’s crass and loud pink American convertible. I will admit to enjoying her company, but having said that, next to my classic Daimler CVD6 handcrafted chassis and custom Burlington 33-seat coachwork, she is, to put it bluntly, nothing if not born and bred trailer trash. When next I’m given a thorough check-up, something The Widow Fartie Da Whistle has promised to attend to the minute I’ve taken up residence in Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota’s garage, I’ll need to have my fluids tested for all manner of STDs. And yes, Dear Diary, you don’t hafta be a pissant human being to suck one o’them into your oil pan. I wasn’t as careful as I should’ve been with that little tramp American Convertible, and if I don’t get myself taken care of my head-lamps’ll fall off, if not something even more special I can’t mention in public. By the way, I thought you’d be pleased to know The Widow Fartie Da Whistle is accompanying me to my new home and is to be my official caregiver and chauffeur. Unfortunately, I’m afraid she’s smitten with Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota, and visa versa, which could be good or bad depending upon how well they hit it off. I’m not sure who’ll take her place in Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s falling-down pink flatpack building, but seeing as how I’m being replaced by a fleet of Ford Transit Buses, all painted pink and with no manners whatsoever, I could care less.

Been thinking about the old biddies. In spite of how they treated my upholstery and kicked at my seats, I fear for their lives now that they’ll not have me or Ol’ Finian Da Fabricator to strap ‘em in and get ‘em from here to there and back again without a single mishap. ‘Can’t see the Ford Transits going the extra mile for ‘em, or Misther Patchouli Da Fanny either, come to think of it. And mark my word, he’ll be the one doing the driving, on account of no one else’ll do it for him, not with him paying substandard wages the way he does, as well as paying ‘em in the pretend old Italian lira wot he and Floozie Da Smelley runs up in their pink Jacuzzi. Heh heh, have you noticed, Dear Diary, how when I gets to talking about Ol’ Patchouli Da Fanny, how I starts to write more and more like a turnip again?

I understand I’m to be driven round the island this afternoon on a farewell tour. All my old ‘friends’ will be riding with me, including Mrs. Drain and Missus Milly Da Fardle and Beryl from Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women. Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion are still in Missus Milly Da Fardle’s bad books and so won’t be allowed on the bus (bring me). It’ll be a kick driving past their little concrete bunker bungalows and see ‘em staring out at us from behind their curtains, all full of shame and seething away to beat the band, and hearing all the little old biddies on board the bus (being me) sneering and pointing their fingers and talkin’ bad about ‘em. However, I’m as pleased as punch to tell you that Fergal Da Fecker’s been found in the ditch he fell into last week during a midnight get-together with Ol’ Marcela Da Splodge from the Fancy-Prancy Club behind the Women’s Institute. I didn’t know they was so well acquainted, but that just goes to show wot I don’t know’d fill a book, don’t it. I’m told he’s been given a special wash and brush-up for our excursion by Arnie Pizzlepod and Maybelline Dorcus O’Brien, both of whom managed to get time off work at Bump ‘n’ Grind Lap-o-Matic. All of ‘em’ll be coming along for the ride, as well, which should liven up the proceedings, especially since Father Brady O’ Flanaghan Murnaghan from the Church of The Immaculate Septum is planning a fitting homily from the best seat up front. By the way, I understand that Missus Milly Da Fardle graciously gave her permission for him to occupy her seat. I’m sure she’s feeling bad at not having a final opportunity to (shall we say) spring a leak on her favourite piece particular upholstery. Speaking of which, according to The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, when I gets to my new home, all my seats are to be take out and burnt and replaced. She mentioned something about tan leather and Milan and Pinafarina, but then said if she said any more it would spoil the surprise.

For some reason Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley aren’t coming along, and neither is Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu. Something tells me Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota has officially uninvited them. It seems he has dropped a couple of well-placed hints to the wrong people regarding Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’ and its special relationship with The Gnu-Fanny Deluxe Premium Luxury Cat Food Company with his brother-in-law. I’ve heard the expression up shit’s creek without a paddle mentioned once or twice with connection with their names. Fortunately I won’t be around here when the brown stuff hits the fan (as they say).

I’ve gotta put away the old pencil and prepare for my farewell tour. I’ll let you know how it goes, that is if’n I don’t slip off of the road and over a cliff or something equally exasperating. Until then, all I can say is, so endeth one of my last sessions with you, Dear Diary. You’ve been like a cycletherapist to me, and whatever happens, I’ll never forget you.