Day 74

Dear Diary,

Well, here I am again, so if you’re still tweedling on your recorders and driving the neighbours crazy you can shut up now and listen, on account of I’m coming to the good part, or at least coming closer to it than I was a coupl’a minutes ago.

If you was paying attention, you might recall that The Widow Fartie Da Whistle had a idea as to how she was gonna save me from being washed away in the storm waters, which personally I wouldn’t have minded so much, even though I’m not a boat and would’a sunk straight to the bottom of the sea. I’ve always had a secret admiration for submarines and figure that if I was in the ocean long enough I might figure out how they does the things they does. After all, I may be a classic Daimler CVD6 bus with a custom-made Burlington 33-seater coach, but I personally believe I’m intelligent enough to figure out wot it takes to be a submarine. Even ones with them missile things jutting outta the front, which isn’t so attractive but which makes people tremble and mess their pants and sit up and take notice. And that can’t be such a bad thing. As far as I’m concerned, it’s not as though there’s anything complicated about being a submarine, is there, and it’s not as if they’ve got any fancy paintwork or custom-designed coachwork to worry about when colliding with them undersea coral reefs or wrecked pirate ships. I mean, when you look at ‘em, all they is is big metal suppositories wots got no style whatsoever. And if there’s one thing I knows about, it’s style. In fact, if there’s one thing I can tell you it’s that style accounts for ninety-nine percent of everything when it comes to who gets the goodies and who ends up eating burnt beans. Wot I’m trying to say is that I could bring style to the job of being a submarine like nobody has before. And with all the style I’m gonna provide, nobody’s gonna try to sink me, is they, which’d make me sorta invincible and might lead the way to world peace. Unless, of course, the Amurkins get mad at me and drop one o’them atom bombs on top of me just for the Hell of it, on account of they wouldn’t know style if it poked ‘em in the eye.

But anyway, as I was saying, I wouldn’t be too put out having to spend the next part of my life at the bottom of the sea, even if it would mean I couldn’t go live with Signore Malvinio Da Flota-Mota and his Ducati, Benvolio Da Trampolio as I was planning to. ‘Course, it’d also mean I wouldn’t have The Widow Fartie Da Whistle making me feel good with her patent leather and whip ministrations, but I’ll bet there are loads of octopoddies and brillopad fish and others other wot can do wonders in that department, so I won’t fret none until the time comes. On the other hand, I can’t say I’d be overjoyed at the prospects of having a whole busload of biddies strapped in their seats and not letting me get on with my conversion to being a submarine on account of it not being exactly convenient to them. Can you imagine all the racket they’d make as they was a’sinkin’ in the sea and their shoes was getting wet and shrinking against their bunions? In fact, you could probably hear them all the way to other side of the universe. Can you imagine wot it’d be like having the likes of Missus Milly Da Fardle and her crinkly friends squealing and screaming and wailing away like they was gonna be put outta their misery at any moment? Personally I don’t want to think about it, especially on account of none of ‘em have brought more’n one spare set of Depends and one pair sure ain’t gonna last for very long if’n we ends up living under the bottom of the ocean. And that is why I’m all for being rescued by The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and why I’ll cooperate the best I can, even if it means throwing those biddies wot’re causing trouble out in the mud and running back and forth over ‘em a dozen hundert times. But where was I?

Oh, yes, I was leading up to the bit where The Widow Fartie Da Whistle rescued us and saved us from living the rest of our lives as fish, or, in the case of the biddies, old crabs. ‘Course, one or two of ‘em, in particular Missus Drain, would end up as Angel Fishes, or at least they would if’n I had anything to do with it. But back to The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and her plan for our salvation.

You remember my telling you about how the corpuses delectables of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous had blowed up to the size of two moons, or maybe twice as big as that, and how they’d got themselves snagged by that very same tree wot The Widow Fartie Da Whistle was sitting in to keep herself from drowning and being washed away to the other side of the island where she’s doesn’t have no friends? Well, seeing Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous bobbing about in the tide like that and suspecting as she did that the water was just gonna keep rising higher’n higher until it covered the entire island so it could drown all the dumb people wot live on it, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle were put in mind of something she’d seen on television not too long before. I guess wot program it was don’t really matter to our story, Dear Diary, but I’m gonna write it down anyway, on account of maybe one or two people wot reads this might be interested and’ll want to ask for it to be played again so’s they can record it. Anyway, the show wot she were remembering was about all these English folks wot lived in India back in the days when they was the bee’s knees and owned the sun so they could always make it shine where they wanted it to. Anyway, there was this family wot lived there and didn’t do much of anything except order about people smaller’n them wot wore baggy clothing on account of they couldn’t afford anything else. The scene I liked best was where all these small people were crawling around on the grass cutting all the blades the same size using fingernail scissors, and when I saw it I said to myself that’d be a good hobby for the biddies to take up, on account of they’ve not got a lot to do and a shitload of time to do it in. That’s not the scene wot I was gonna tell you about, but I thought you’d like to know about it as sort of a bonus. However, wot came next – which is interesting to us in our present circumstance – is how their kids liked to float down the big gigantic rivers they have over there and hardly ever drowned. And the reason they hardly ever drowned, in spite of the fact that most of the little people in baggy clothing probably wish they would, is water buffaloes!

That’s wot I said: WATER BUFFALOES. And on account of they was the reason so many little kids didn’t go drowning when they was ‘boating’ (as they called it) on them great big gigantic rivers, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle knew she could keep the biddies from drowning as well, even if by now they’d lost the will to live on account of how late we was getting started on my farewell tour of the island. ‘Course, most people would’a forgiven her if’n she’d decided right then and there to go home and forget about the whole thing, but I guess she’s made of wot they calls ‘sterner stuff’. I don’t know exactly wot that is, but I’m not gonna argue with it.

On that note and while you’re resting up so’s you can hear all about The Big Climax, I’m gonna put my pencil away and take a moment to be by myself. Don’t worry though, I’ll be back in a minute so don’t go anywhere. As I always say, so endeth the build up to The Big Climax!