Day 76
Dear Diary,
Here I am again, and I know you’re happy to see me back, even if you don’t want to admit it in front of people you admire. It’s like that sometimes, you’ve just gotta go your own way, even if it means you’ll never be talked to in public again or invited out to restaurant openings or allowed into the sorta clubs most folks haven’t even heard of.
To be honest, I was gonna sleep through today or at least hide my pencil so’s I wouldn’t be tempted to intrude on your time, Dear Diary. But the thing is, when last you heard form me, the flood waters was rising to beat the band, threatening to wash me and all the biddies into the sea where they’d probably drown in spite of their objections. In fact, them voicing their complaints might just insure that they’d drown even quicker’n most, on account of they don’t know how to keep their mouths shut, not even in their best interests. And as you all know, waves of water has an easier time getting into an open mouth than it does a shut one. But where was I?
Oh, yes, as I was saying, the flood waters was rising at a terrible rate and the biddies was strapped in their seats at the back of the bus (being me), and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, the designated driver, was outside sitting up a tree and wondering what she could do to keep her new shoes from getting wet and all spoiled in the rising flood waters, when low and behold she remembered a television documentary about India under the Raj wot she’d seen on a night when nothing else was on and she’d already seen that night’s episode of EastEnders forty-five times on sixteen channels. In this documentary (which I’ve already told you about over the last coupl’a days, so you really ought to have been paying attention), The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’d saw ten or forty dead and bloated-way-up water buffaloes floating down the middle of a river. And she also saw how one of the sahibs, as they called the folks what did the ordering about back in them days when the sun never set on account of nobody trusted wot the uppity folks’d get up to after dark, got the idea of stealing a coupl’a those dead and bloated water buffaloes and putting them under the rafts they used for their luncheon parties when they didn’t have no work to do. Anyway, Sir Sebastien Pickapo, wot was the name of that particular sahib we was talking about, started with one water buffalo, but the thing is it were so round the raft wasted no time at all in falling off’n it and drowning all the folks wot was nibbling on their cucumber sandwiches. He then tried it with two, on account of he was always up for the next best thing, but it fell over just as fast, and it caused all sorts of fuss down at the polo club on account of it were drowning off all the folks wot could remember wot a finesse was at the bridge table. Sir Sebastien Pickapo were about to give up in despair and go out and shoot forty or fifty tigers so’s he could send ‘em home for Christmas presents, when his ‘Ol ancient Aiya, wot had brung him up from the time he was two minutes old and so knew wot he looked like naked as a jay, whispered in his ear and told him wot he’d been doing wrong. So’s he wouldn’a think she was getting up above herself, however, she first hemmed and hawed and shuffled her feet and mumbled “if’n it pleases you, Sir Sebastien Pickapo” and asked a coupl’a questions in a voice you couldn’a barely hear, the way folks do when they’re about to pull the wool over an idiot’s eyes. The first of these question has to do with what shape the raft happened to be built in. ‘Course, Sir Sebastien Pickapo got all huffy and puffy, on account of he thought she were a moron wot couldn’a tell a rectangle when she saw it, and he said, “It’s a rectangle, you pathetic foreign git, and do you want to know anything else before I locks you in the stocks and leaves you to starve to death for making me eat blancmange every afternoon before my nap?” And she answers back, bowing lower’n a toad so’s her nose scrapes the floor and got dog poop all over it, “I know I got no business saying this, on account of I’m a foreign pagan and my colour comes off of when I’m scrubbed, which is why I’m not allowed to take a bath, but weren’t you just telling me that a rectangular has four corners, whatever they is?” And Sir Sebastien Pickapo kicked her across the room and says speak when you’re spoke to, but yes, come to think of it, I was after telling you that rectangulops has four corners, but what of it? And, well, the ‘Ol ancient Aiya, wot’s wiped his bottom so many time she’s memorized his haemorrhoids off by heart, said, “wasn’t you telling me it might be a good idea, since the raft has four corners and there is four big fat bloaty water buffaloes floating around doing nothing, if’n we stuffed one buffalo under each corner, on account of it’d be more symmetrical and have better dung chou ping?” And Sir Sebastien Pickapo picked her up upside down and washed the floor with her hair and said, “Yessiree Bob, You stinking bag o’filth, that’s wot I told you to do and why hasn’t you done it like you was told?” And she bowed ever lower’n before and beat herself with a bundle of sticks wot was lying about for no good reason, and then went and stuffed the dead and bloated water buffaloes under the raft the same way’d she’d put it into his head to tell her to do. And of course, the raft floated to beat the band and all a hundert and thirty-five nabobs wot was nibbling on their pomplegranite sorbet didn’t fall in the river and get drowned any more.
And this, Dear Diary, was wot The Widow Fartie Da Whistle was thinking about and wot had occurred to her as a saving grace after’n she’d saw the two corpuses delicates of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous floating about in the water and noticed how bloated they’d got. She knew whe’d have to do something before’n they got any bigger and blew up, on account of they’d be no good to anyone after doing that, but since she were a whole lot smarter that Sir Sebastien Pickapo, she understood that there were only two of ‘em but that she’s couldn’a stick ‘em under me to keep me from going down in the water on account of my having four corners. And she’d already saw in the television documentary wot happened when Sir Sebastien Pickapo tried stuffing two bloaty water buffaloes under a raft wot had four corners, so she knew she had to think up something and double quick or we’d all drown, including you Dear Diary, and then nobody’d have anything to read anymore.
‘Course, we all know I didn’t drown and neither did the biddies, so she must’a come up with something. Wot it was’ll have to wait ‘till tomorrow on account of my pencil’s plum wore out from all the writing. Never fear, however, one he’s recovered, I’ll be back faster’n you can say ‘can we watch daytime television instead’? In the mean time, I’ll leave you with my usual words of wisdom, which is so endeth this time between us and if’n you watch daytime television you’ll come down with male pattern baldness, even if’n you’re a little girl.
Dear Diary,
Here I am again, and I know you’re happy to see me back, even if you don’t want to admit it in front of people you admire. It’s like that sometimes, you’ve just gotta go your own way, even if it means you’ll never be talked to in public again or invited out to restaurant openings or allowed into the sorta clubs most folks haven’t even heard of.
To be honest, I was gonna sleep through today or at least hide my pencil so’s I wouldn’t be tempted to intrude on your time, Dear Diary. But the thing is, when last you heard form me, the flood waters was rising to beat the band, threatening to wash me and all the biddies into the sea where they’d probably drown in spite of their objections. In fact, them voicing their complaints might just insure that they’d drown even quicker’n most, on account of they don’t know how to keep their mouths shut, not even in their best interests. And as you all know, waves of water has an easier time getting into an open mouth than it does a shut one. But where was I?
Oh, yes, as I was saying, the flood waters was rising at a terrible rate and the biddies was strapped in their seats at the back of the bus (being me), and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, the designated driver, was outside sitting up a tree and wondering what she could do to keep her new shoes from getting wet and all spoiled in the rising flood waters, when low and behold she remembered a television documentary about India under the Raj wot she’d seen on a night when nothing else was on and she’d already seen that night’s episode of EastEnders forty-five times on sixteen channels. In this documentary (which I’ve already told you about over the last coupl’a days, so you really ought to have been paying attention), The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’d saw ten or forty dead and bloated-way-up water buffaloes floating down the middle of a river. And she also saw how one of the sahibs, as they called the folks what did the ordering about back in them days when the sun never set on account of nobody trusted wot the uppity folks’d get up to after dark, got the idea of stealing a coupl’a those dead and bloated water buffaloes and putting them under the rafts they used for their luncheon parties when they didn’t have no work to do. Anyway, Sir Sebastien Pickapo, wot was the name of that particular sahib we was talking about, started with one water buffalo, but the thing is it were so round the raft wasted no time at all in falling off’n it and drowning all the folks wot was nibbling on their cucumber sandwiches. He then tried it with two, on account of he was always up for the next best thing, but it fell over just as fast, and it caused all sorts of fuss down at the polo club on account of it were drowning off all the folks wot could remember wot a finesse was at the bridge table. Sir Sebastien Pickapo were about to give up in despair and go out and shoot forty or fifty tigers so’s he could send ‘em home for Christmas presents, when his ‘Ol ancient Aiya, wot had brung him up from the time he was two minutes old and so knew wot he looked like naked as a jay, whispered in his ear and told him wot he’d been doing wrong. So’s he wouldn’a think she was getting up above herself, however, she first hemmed and hawed and shuffled her feet and mumbled “if’n it pleases you, Sir Sebastien Pickapo” and asked a coupl’a questions in a voice you couldn’a barely hear, the way folks do when they’re about to pull the wool over an idiot’s eyes. The first of these question has to do with what shape the raft happened to be built in. ‘Course, Sir Sebastien Pickapo got all huffy and puffy, on account of he thought she were a moron wot couldn’a tell a rectangle when she saw it, and he said, “It’s a rectangle, you pathetic foreign git, and do you want to know anything else before I locks you in the stocks and leaves you to starve to death for making me eat blancmange every afternoon before my nap?” And she answers back, bowing lower’n a toad so’s her nose scrapes the floor and got dog poop all over it, “I know I got no business saying this, on account of I’m a foreign pagan and my colour comes off of when I’m scrubbed, which is why I’m not allowed to take a bath, but weren’t you just telling me that a rectangular has four corners, whatever they is?” And Sir Sebastien Pickapo kicked her across the room and says speak when you’re spoke to, but yes, come to think of it, I was after telling you that rectangulops has four corners, but what of it? And, well, the ‘Ol ancient Aiya, wot’s wiped his bottom so many time she’s memorized his haemorrhoids off by heart, said, “wasn’t you telling me it might be a good idea, since the raft has four corners and there is four big fat bloaty water buffaloes floating around doing nothing, if’n we stuffed one buffalo under each corner, on account of it’d be more symmetrical and have better dung chou ping?” And Sir Sebastien Pickapo picked her up upside down and washed the floor with her hair and said, “Yessiree Bob, You stinking bag o’filth, that’s wot I told you to do and why hasn’t you done it like you was told?” And she bowed ever lower’n before and beat herself with a bundle of sticks wot was lying about for no good reason, and then went and stuffed the dead and bloated water buffaloes under the raft the same way’d she’d put it into his head to tell her to do. And of course, the raft floated to beat the band and all a hundert and thirty-five nabobs wot was nibbling on their pomplegranite sorbet didn’t fall in the river and get drowned any more.
And this, Dear Diary, was wot The Widow Fartie Da Whistle was thinking about and wot had occurred to her as a saving grace after’n she’d saw the two corpuses delicates of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous floating about in the water and noticed how bloated they’d got. She knew whe’d have to do something before’n they got any bigger and blew up, on account of they’d be no good to anyone after doing that, but since she were a whole lot smarter that Sir Sebastien Pickapo, she understood that there were only two of ‘em but that she’s couldn’a stick ‘em under me to keep me from going down in the water on account of my having four corners. And she’d already saw in the television documentary wot happened when Sir Sebastien Pickapo tried stuffing two bloaty water buffaloes under a raft wot had four corners, so she knew she had to think up something and double quick or we’d all drown, including you Dear Diary, and then nobody’d have anything to read anymore.
‘Course, we all know I didn’t drown and neither did the biddies, so she must’a come up with something. Wot it was’ll have to wait ‘till tomorrow on account of my pencil’s plum wore out from all the writing. Never fear, however, one he’s recovered, I’ll be back faster’n you can say ‘can we watch daytime television instead’? In the mean time, I’ll leave you with my usual words of wisdom, which is so endeth this time between us and if’n you watch daytime television you’ll come down with male pattern baldness, even if’n you’re a little girl.
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