Day 81

Dear Diary,

Well, a coupl’a of you might’a got in touch about being ready for the next phase of our breathtaking excitement, and even if’n I’ve ain’t heard nothing from nobody I can pretend I could’a if’n I had a better distribution deal. Life can get pretty lonely when you’re only a bus, even a classic Daimler CVD6 with custom-designed Burlington 33-seater coachwork, on account of everybody thinks you’re stupider’n a bucket of plastic worms and can’t talk at all, let alone conduct a conversation worthy of a smart person on a television show.

But never mind, even if you’re not out there reading this here diary, I’m here writing it, and that’s the important thing. ‘Course, it does make me sadder’n a pancake wot’s only got some of that artificial syrup slopped over it and not the real thing poured out of a maple tree, to think that so many of you won’t be knowing about the flood and storm wot we’ve been having. But there again, me and the biddies ain’t so much celebrities as we are the Forgotten Forgottens, which makes me think that we might do just fine and dandy on Big Brother and perhaps come out as the Next Big Thing and be signed up for a big management deal, perhaps even by Cinnamon Fullersearth, or whatever his name is when he’s at home. So wot I’m trying to say here real subtle is if’n anyone knows the producer of Big Brother or the slapper wot operates the casting couch, you might give ‘em a wink and a nod for us. That’s if there’s anyone at all out there, which in my opinion is doubtful. Where was I?

Ah, yes, Dear Diary, I know you was waiting on me and dying to know wot happened after me and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and the biddies got caught up in the raging storm and got all washed out to sea. Like I said last time I wrote, I sorta blacked out and lost control of where my mind was due to wot they calls the ‘Violence of the Elements’. This went on longer’n it takes an old man to pee, but then all of a sudden, it was over. And when I say it was over, I’m saying it stopped dead and there weren’t no more of nothing. In other words, it were like a blank space in the middle of a page o’words. ‘Course, being that the storm and raging torrent’d stopped so quick, it took a while for our brains to get around this new situation in which there were exactly nothing going on and no where for it to go on in. If’n you get my meaning.

Eventually, however, after it were quiet as a mouse wot’s washing its whiskers for a coupl’a minutes, I started in getting the sneaky feeling that I might not be dead after all and that the world hadn’t ended in spite of wot the papers is always saying. ‘Course, it could’a helped that by then I’d stopped holding my breath, which meant my Ol’ fuel pump’d started in a’boingy-boingy again and I could relax and take a deep breath and unstopper my ears. And after a coupl’a more minutes of this, I knowed for sure I was alive, on account of I’d opened up my feelings and felt the sea underneath me rolling and swelling gently to and fro and slapping against my sides with a soft swish swish splish shhhhh sway, swish splish shhhhh sway.

Once my eyes was open again, wot met my gaze was truly wondrous to behold, and I’m not using those big words just for the sake of showing off my intelligencia. It were as if we’d been kilt and popped up in a magic kingdom, only without having to buy a load of tickets and then parking your folks somewhere where they can’t embarrass you. The sea were magical calm and blue as one of them enamelled Russian bird’s eggs, and there were millions of glints here and there like diamonds. And up above there weren’t not a cloud to be seen, only blue and more blue as far as there was anything at all, and even farther. ‘Course, this were an amazing sight and one not ever seen before by peoples wot lived on the island, on account of the weather there don’t know how to do anything but rain and more rain. Apropos wot had happening with the storm, what I’m guessing is that something went wrong with whoever it is wot operates the weather machinery. Perhaps the gears jammed or something and before he could do anything to fix it, all the water came down at once instead of in daily increments. The reason for all this sunshine now is all them water tanks they keeps up there is empty. In my humble opinion this is no bad thing, but then again wot do I know, on account of I’m only a bus. And by the way, I’ll bet you’n elephant’s anus that it were a man wot fucked up the weather. Women are pretty much perfect and can multitask to beat the band. Until, of course, they becomes biddies, but that is another story and one I don’t want to get into on pain of death.

Anyways, back to wot was happening. There we was, floating about and bobbing in them gentle swells in the sea and everything was as pretty as a picture, and by everything I’m including the poor old dead carcasses of Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous. Indeed, wot had come over them was truly another wondrous miracle to behold. Being that they’d been dead and bloaty for so long, and at least a coupl’a three days by now, you would’a thunk they’d’a rotted apart in the water and kilt off all the fishies. ‘Course, that wouldn’a been a good idea, not for the fishies and certainly not for us, on account of it were their gassy bloat wot was keeping us afloat. However, hallelujah and press your gourd, it appeared we weren’t gonna hafta worry about none of that. For instead of breaking up in the sea water and being dissolved down to nothing but a coupl’a greasy smudges in the tide, it so happened that about a billion or so corals and sea’nenomies and sea cucumbers and star fishies of every colour and size had moved onto them corpuses deliciosous and made themselves at home. It were truly amazing and unlike anything I’ve ever seen in my life, and I’ve been around since the fifties and’ve seen everything. Those two old dead ladies could’a been right proud of themselves, for not only were they keeping us a’float but they was looking more dazzlier’n Regent Street when all the Christmas lights is twinkling. If’n old Beryl wot does up dead ladies at Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’ as well as the undead biddies wot comes in regular to her Hair Parlour for old Ladies, could see ‘em now, she’d hafta give up her trade and refer all her business to Ol’ Man Sea’s beauty makeover operation, that’s how gorgeous Miss Parsley Da Onker and Missus Malla Oda Odipossipous’d become. ‘Course, being that I love sharing wot’s beautiful in life with someone wot appreciates it, I pointed out our two ‘flotation devices’ to The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, and the moment she saw ‘em she let out a “will you feck me with a spoon and churn me into butter!” If’n she were anyone else I would’a washed out her mouth with soap right then and there, but as it was I just blushed and felt proud of her for being so clever with words.

‘Course, good things is sometimes too good to last, and in this case the bad shit started the moment The Widow Fartie Da Whistle drawed attention to the two dead ladies wot were all decorated with lovely sea decorations and looked more like bejewelled bloaty pigs served up at an Elizabethan banquet than two dead biddies wot’d been ate by sea baubles. But the bad shit can wait ‘till later, on account of it gets dramatic again and I need to rest up a bit before telling you wot happened. Until then, I’ll say like I’ve said before, so endeth the good part and get ready for more bad shit.