Day 150

Dear Diary,

Interestingly enough, Howard Donald Da Fardle was over the moon I’d yelled in his window for him to wake up. It seems he was lying there in his little truckle bed unable to sleep and with all his babbies overflowin’ their cots ‘n’ snorin’ away just like Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle used to when he was a sprog and was forced to sleep in a box at the foot of her bed. No sooner’d I called his name (actually wot I said was “Oh Howard Donald Da Fardle or Melba Toast if’n that’s your name, can I axe you somethin’?” than he poked his face out the window and replied “Sure as shootin’, sugar, only my name’s Crispy Crinkles.” He then withdrew is head back into the shack and shut the window, and just as I thought that was gonna be the extent of our conversation, the door opened ‘n’ he come out with a foldin’ chair ‘n’ a couple mugs o’tea and stale biscuits. “I see you managed to dig up some stale biscuits,” I said. And he said “The tin were in a press behind a bunch of old papers ‘n’ shit. It’s just like in the old days before the flood.” He sat down on the chair ‘n’ handed me over one o’the mugs o’tea (the green one without the chipped handle ‘n’ with a picture of a naked lady admirin’ herself in a old fashioned lookin’ glass). “I know you prefers a cup ‘n’ saucer every time,” he said, “but these is the best I could find.” I must admit to feelin’ sorta chuffed at his show of good manners and consideration, wot were traits the old Howard Donald Da Fardle never had in abundance. As if he were readin’ my thoughts, he added, “Motherhood’s changed me ‘n’ made me a better person.” After which he settled down in his chair, scoochin’ this way and that ‘til he’d got his rump in a comfortable position, and slurped at his tea.

Well, we sat in wot they calls a companionable silence for a few moments, and then I said I was confused as well as puzzled by somethin’ and would he mind if’n I axed him a personal question? “Go right ahead,” he said. “Ask away. Motherhood’s prepared me for every question known and unknown to man.” And this made me laugh on account of I can’t imagine wot a billion babbies must be like when they starts axin’ about anything ‘n’ everything ‘n’ drivin’ their mam up a tree without a ladder.

“Wot does you want me to call you, now that things’re sorta….” But Ol’ Howard Donald put down his mug on the coffee table wot’d appeared outta nowheres whilst we was talkin’ and he shut me up with a interruption. “You mean now that I’ve experienced motherhood?” At this point I’d sorta got the message that he was a mother and that’s all he wanted to talk about, but hells’ bell’s, I’m a bus ‘n’ couldn’t give a shit about wot human beings get up to when they ain’t got no TV to distract ‘em, and so I tried to avoid the motherhood issue altogether and steer the conversation where I wanted in to go. And I started my steerin’ by axin’ when he’d been re-Christened Crispy Crinkles ‘n’ how the fuck had he come by the name. “Well, first of all,” he said straight out ‘n’ with his eyes fulled up of somethin’ wot might’a been either matriarchletude or a gas attack, “as a mother, I doesn’t rightly approve of swearin’ and usin’ words wot’re offensive to The Lord. I’ll have you know that my chillins is pure and unadulterated and their ears’re like the driven snow.”

Well, as you know, that’s the sort’a dumbfuck remark wot gets my dander up ‘n’ puts my mouth on automatic transmission, which means I had to reply without a second thought, “But their fuckin’ daddy’s a rabid cur dog with a mouth on him like the Calcutta gutter.”

“I’ll have you know…” Crispy Crinkles started to say, only I wouldn’t let it get outta her mouth. “Shut the fuck up, Howard Donald Da Fardle,” I yelled, “on account of you know and I know and everybody else knows none of us here’s nothin’ but sons o’bitches wot…”

But now it was Howard Donald Da Fardle’s turn to interrupt me, “How dare you call my babies sons o’bitches. I’m their mother ‘n’ I can prove it on account of I ain’t no lady dog ‘n’ I was present when they was born.”

Well, as with all conversations wot one wanders into in these parts, I saw it was gonna go nowhere fast, ‘n’ so I thought it best if I wot they calls ‘demurred’ before it was too late. “I’m sorry Missus Crinkles, if’n I offended your delicate sensibilities ‘n’ I promise not to say fuck or shit or arsehole or rim me you fuckin’ dyke or anything else when your motherful ears is pointed in my direction. I was wrong ‘n’ I’m fuckin’ sorry, you sorry excuse for a wobble front bottom.”

“Well, all right then,” Howard Donald said, as he refilled my mug o’tea from a hose extendin’ outta the front of his pyjama bottoms, “I accept your apology ‘n’ thank you for not usin’ the ‘c’ word in my presence, on account of motherhood’s made my ears more delicate than tea cakes made with lard instead of horse manure.”

‘Course, I thought about that for a moment while I dranked my tea ‘n’ tried to figure out the flavourin’ he’d used, and then returned to one of my original questions. “You was gonna tell me about how you come to be named Crispy Crinkles?”

“Well,” answered Howard Donald Da Fardle is a flash, smilin’ shiny like a new penny ‘n’ eager to please. “It were somethin’ of a miracle, Misther Bus. I’d just gaved birth ‘n’ was baskin’ in the joys of motherhood and wonderin’ wot I might do with all that afterbirth wot was fillin’ up the shack ‘n’ getting’ in the way, when a man wot I’d never sawed before appeared by my side in a black suit and holdin’ a clipboard. And he asked me what the father’s name was ‘n’ I had to say, ‘you’ll hafta check with him on account of I ain’t met him yet, only I think you’ll find he’s that rabid dog wot’s sittin’ outside washin his dick ‘n’ lookin’ pleased with hisself.” Howard Donald slurped another mouthful o’tea ‘n’ wiped his mouth ‘n’ continued. “The man wrote all this down ‘n’ then asked me wot my name was. Well, I’m sorry to say I couldn’t remember a thing, but neither would you if’n you’d just gaved birth to a billion squirmin’ Howiepupples. However, I happened to look down at the bed ‘n’ saw it’d been made out of a old donut box ‘n’ a bundle o’rags. Well, my eyes lit on the side of the box ‘n’ I sawed wot was wrote on it, ‘n’ it said ‘Crispy Crinkles’. I dunno why, but I sort’a opened my mouth ‘n’ that’s wot comed out. Not Howard Donald Da Fardle. Not Melba Toast like I was called at school. Anyways, the man in the black suit wrote down Crispy Crinkles on the form ‘n’ it’s a good thing my Ol’ mammy ain’t alive or she’d die of shame next time she went to Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women to get re-purpled.”

Well, Dear Diary, Crispy Crinkles poured me another cup of his personal tea, wot wasn’t all that unpleasant other’n the fact it coated my teeth in a peculiar way, ‘n’ wot I really wanted to axe next was why they called him Melba Toast at school. Maybe I will ‘n’ maybe I won’t. I’m also curiouser’n fuck about little Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One, on account of I’ve not sawed them around ‘n’ am sorta worried that they might’ve been kidnapped or something. And I also want to know about the man in the black suit and where he’d come from ‘n’ why ain’t we seen him before? Clearly, I’ve gotta take a break ‘n’ sort out my brain ‘n’ get it in the right gear. While I’m doin’ this, I’m gonna say ‘so endeth’, on account of if’n I don’t say it you won’t know it’s time for you to go ‘n’ empty your bladders ‘n’ go to bed. Pleasant dreams, and if’n you can think of any more questions for Ol’ Crispy Crinkles, let me know.