The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Dear Diary. I am dreaming. I am on a bus and need to piss. The bus driver tells me to piss in a bag that is almost overflowing with shit and urine. I take out my cock and notice a hole in it. Through the hole, I can see the muscle that controls my erections. A bird grabs it and I comically give chase. Then a friend cooks it like a sausage.

I wake up. I need a real piss this time. It is 7am. I get up and go to the toilet. I find it difficult to fall sleep again.

We get up at 11am. It is Sunday. I am tired. Girlfriend has suggested we do a big food shop to take advantage of offers.

We take bixis. Girlfriend is wearing extremely baggy trousers. They are like parachute pants or clown trousers, though with an Indian pattern. She is worried they will get stuck in the bike's gears. We head out onto the main road. Girlfriend calls for me to stop. Her trousers are indeed stuck in the gears. I joke that she will have to take them off. I manage to get them free after much pulling. We agree to go by metro instead.

The shopping is a success. We spend $100, but get a lot since almost everything we buy is on offer. We choose home delivery.

Girlfriend wants to buy wine from SAQ. I warn her that we may miss the home delivery. We go to SAQ anyway. Girlfriend is inexplicably excited. She has found her favourite beer from Spain. I buy Malibu, since I tried it with pineapple juice a while ago and liked it. I make Girlfriend pose outside the shop with the three bottles, as she looks like an alcoholic.

The phone rings. The home delivery has arrived. I take a bixi back while clutching the bottle of Malibu. There are two men waiting for me. One makes a joke in French and they laugh. I don't understand. I explain that, "Mon français est encore merdique" (my French is still shit). He shrugs his shoulders. They unload the shopping. One asks for a tip, grinning. Of course, I say, and hand him 5 cents. His smile drops faster than shit out of a babboon striken with diarrhea. I explain I was only joking and hand him $2. His face lights up again.

I park the bixi. Girlfriend has arrived home. We eat lunch. We have gazpacho soup, chicken and rice. Girlfriend lost a bet five days ago. She has to make all the meals and do the washing up for a week. She is determined to follow it through so that I won't later keep reminding her of it.

We have apartments to see. We take the metro to Lionel-Groulx. We are 10 minutes late. The apartment is small and shabby. The view from the window is of a concrete wasteland. The current tenant is a Chinese girl. She asks me, "Are you from British?" Yes, I say, how did you know? "From your accent," she says. She then asks Girlfriend the same question. Girlfriend smiles and says no, she's from Spain. Chinese girl tells us that two men want the apartment, but her Chinese landlord won't let them because they're black.

Girlfriend and I decide that the apartment is too dingy and the corridor too narrow. We still have an hour before our next viewing.  We decide to walk. It is the middle of summer and the weather is hot. I am wearing flip-flops that rub me uncomfortably.

The next apartment is in a huge building. The apartment itself is small. Everything is in one room, apart from the bathroom. But the view is impressive. "You can even see Dollarama!" Girlfriend exclaims. The current tenant is a friendly Korean man. He is giving away most of his belongings - his bed, tables, kitchenwear - even his washing detergent. He is going back to Korea. We go upstairs to see the rooftop swimming pool. From here, we can see the hills and river. We are charmed by the apartment. On the metro back, we reconsider and decide that the apartment was too small. Girlfriend says that we really need a wall separating the bedroom from the living room, for when we want to be apart from each other. We decide to give our notice to our landlord. We will leave at the end of August.

At home, we have an hour before we will go out again and see a play. The play is A Midsummer's Night Dream. A theatre group are performing it for free in the local park.

When we are almost there, Girlfriend realises we have forgotten her pita bread. I heroically cycle back home to fetch it. She doesn't know it, but I enjoy going back. I like the excitement that I may be late and the speed and freedom of the bike.

Marion, a friend, is with Girlfriend. Marion has brought a friend of her own. I make a couple of crude jokes in French that charm everyone.

There are two small boys and a man sitting in front of me. The boys look malnourished. They are bored of Shakespeare. They fidget and squirm. Their father tells them to be quiet.

More of our friends are sitting far behind us. They join us at the interval. They are leaving to the Festival International Nuits d'Afrique out of boredom. They are having difficulty understanding Shakespeare's English. It is hard to blame them. I am English and often I can't understand. They are not English.

I drink a cider. I feel slightly drunk. I have become sensitive to the effects of alcohol thanks to the last few months' sobriety. My awareness increases. The bright colours of the play are vivid against the surrounding darkness. I realise I can hear a fountain, and I can see the lake. Figures walk beside it in the gloom.

The play ends. We make a swift exit. Girlfriend works early tomorrow. At home, I begin writing this. Girlfriend looks over my shoulder. "We got up at 10am," she corrects. "Not 11am." She encourages me to come to bed and to keep typing even though she will sleep.

It is now 1am. I turn off the laptop and go to sleep.