Day 96

Dear Diary,

Well, we finished up our cups of tea and even sopped up the slops from the saucers with hunks of bread and dripping and gobbled down the tiny chunks of Turkish Delight wot we was given to cleanse our palates, and now things has settled down nice and quiet. Me and my driver, The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, have been breathing sighs of relief to beat the band and are now considering wot we’re gonna do about the future now that we’re not in danger of sinking down to the bottom of the sea. At least if we is to believe wot we wants to believe as natural born optimists, we should be all right for at least the foreseeable future or until Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle gets mad at something and wreaks vengeance on the world, or in this case on the bus (being me) and all wot lives in us. Take your pick. Either way we’s in the lap of the gods.

I’m not sure where we are on the ocean or even wot ocean we’re in. One thing I does know, however, is that we’re not on the same hemisphere as the island wot we used to live on before it got swept away in the flood. The reason I’m saying this and am not afeared of being contradicted is that today is an A-One beautiful day, almost wot they’s calls ‘simply lovely’ in them Victorian novels by young ladies wot pretended to be young men. The sun has got his hat on and there’s only a coupl’a little fluffy clouds set here and there in the blue so’s to break up the monotony. Now the reason I can tell we’s not near where the island was is that, from the first time I set foot (or in my case, my wheel) on that hunk of land sticking outta the water in the grey grey northern sea, we never once had a pretty little picture postcard day, not ever. Just rain and more rain and catching your death of funerals and mud and boiled cabbage and three kinds of potatoes, even with your ice cream and rhubarb crumble. It’s no wonder I’d’ve corroded away til I’d turned into a rust bucket if’n I hadn’t got Ol’ Fergal Da Fecker and then after him Finian Da Fabricator, followed by The Widow Fartie Da Whistle, to moisturise my paintwork and keep me shinier’n a bucket of goose fat wot’s swimming in a roasting pan on Christmas.

So anyways, here we was, floating around in an aimless sorta fashion, just as if we was on a extended vacation and didn’t have no care in the world. The sky, as I said before, was as blue as one o’them aquamarines and the sea were even bluer’n that, which led me to suspect we was either in wot they calls the Mediterranean or down in the Caribbeano. The tide were as peaceful and calm as a roomful of dead people and even the biddies wot was strapped back in my seats was breaking out the cabbage and turnip sandwiches and looking like they was actually up for having a good old time gossip session. ‘Course this don’t include Ol’ Miss Cabbage, wot had jumped out of her window and swum all the way down to the north pole, or at least as far away so’s to be outta the range of Missus Milly Da Fardle’s inborn nasty retribution radar mechanism instinct. Personally, I suspect Miss Cabbage only pretended to swim outta sight and is in actual fact hiding out on the top of the bus (being me) until she thinks it’s safe to come down. Now I know Miss Cabbage’s been acquainted with Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle longer’n the smell of a egg of a thousand years lingers in a closed room, and she sorta knows how her inner daemons tick, but in my humble opinion this time she’d went too far wot with her sticking Missus Milly Da Fardle with a hat pin and making her pass a wet fart all over the bus (being me). As we all knows, Missus Milly Da Fardle’ll never forgive her or forget, not in a million billion years. And since she’s never gonna die as long as she’s declared eternal vengeance against a mean and sworn enemy wot’s mortally offended her, I think Miss Cabbage ain’t got wot they calls a promising future. ‘Cuz whatever you thinks about Miss Cabbage as a member of the human race, you gotta admit there’s no better example of a mean and sworn enemy in the whole world than wot she is. In fact, if’n her old dead mam’s to be believed, Miss Cabbage is a direct descendant of that first snake wot bit Ol’ Adam on the testiculos. Or was it the other way around. Where was I?

Oh, yes, wot I was talking about was that after all the excitement and danger of the past coupl’a three days, me and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle and the biddies was becalmed in a ocean a smooth as glass and twice as flat. The biddies was eatin’ the lunches the Day Care Centre for Biddies on a Pension’d given ‘em to keep their stomachs from shrinking more’n usual and their mouths from complaining to the government, and The Widow Fartie Da Whistle was waxing herself on account of she’d forgot to do it earlier and she likes to be ready for action at all times. As for me, I was starting to think about the future and whether I was gonna spend the rest of my life touring ‘round the seven seas with a bunch of mean-tempered biddies, when wot did I see outta the corner of my right headlamp but a strangely familiar-looking jet ski with two sunburnt lumpy globs in a shade of bright burnt pink lying on top of it.

‘Course, I know you’s gonna jump to conclusions and say “Whoopty dee, you’s just seen Misther Patchouli Da Fanny and Floozie Da Smelley and you’re gonna rescue ‘em before they fall off’n the jet ski and drown deader’n Misther Patchouli Da Fanny’s winky.” Well, personally I wouldn’a want to lay odds on me doing any heroic rescuing, but we’ll see wot happens. Wot I can guarantee is that the first thing I had to do before I went over to see if’n they was still living and breathing was to wait for The Widow Fartie Da Whistle to finish up with her bikini waxing, especially on account of it was a Brazilian and I didn’t want to startle her so’s she rips off wot is a bad idea.

Wot I’m trying to say, Dear Diary, is no way can I interrupt her now without her hurting herself in a way she’ll regret down the line. And since the jet ski don’t look like it’s gonna go anywhere of its own accord, I’m just gonna put away my pencil and wait. And you can wait too, and I’ll ask you not to make a fuss over it. And if you don’t have nothing better to do, you can always close your eyes and imagine for yourself wot The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s doing with her magic wax wand. I know I’ve told you a million times to keep your thoughts to yourself when you’re thinking about her, Dear Diary, but since I know you don’t listen to anything I say, I’ll let you go ahead with what you can’t help.

When The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s all done and she’s looking like a billiard ball, I’ll bring out my pencil and paper again and’ll say so endeth The Widow Fartie Da Whistle’s personal toilet, so we’d better continue on from where we was, that is if’n we ever wish to get there.