The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Dear Diary. It's 2 am and I'm sleeping on the sofa. I'm woken by a noise. It's my sister, home from drinking. She bangs cupboard doors loudly, perhaps looking for food. I pretend to be sleeping so I don't have to talk to her. Finally, she goes to bed.

Next, I'm woken by the sounds of my Dad getting ready for work. It's morning. 7.40 am.

"Where's my car key!?" he shouts. "My fucking keys!! I left them in the door!"

I sit up on the couch. "I think Lisa might have them," I say, sleepily.

He violently kicks a bag and shouts, "Fucking bastard!" over and over. This may be the angriest I have ever seen him.

He stomps upstairs and goes into my sister's room. "Lisa!" he shouts, waking her up. "Where's my fucking keys, Lisa!? Where's my fucking keys!?"

Next, I hear him go into my brother's room. "Adam! Where's my keys!?"

He comes downstairs, still swearing. I take my door key and open the front door for him. "What fucking good's that?" he snaps. "I need my fucking car key!"

He stomps upstairs again. I hear Lisa say, "Here, I have them." She must have picked up the keys when she came in drunk.

My dad begins to calm down. I return to the sofa and pull the duvet over me. There is a new constrictive feeling of anxiety in my chest.

"Thank you, Lisa," he calls up the stairs, gently, strangely placated. After he leaves, the anxiety in my chest is still there.

I groggily get up and go to his room and continue sleeping in his bed.

Two hours later and it's time for me to get up for work. I lie in bed for a couple of minutes, mentally preparing myself to get up. Lisa abruptly comes in.

"Sorry,” she says, “I was just putting this charger here".

"It's okay," I mutter. "I have to get up anyway."

Twenty minutes later and I'm out the door. I walk a mile to the train station and wait for the train. I don’t buy a train ticket. Not because I'm a cool rebel, but because I'm poor. No one checks your ticket anyway.

The train takes me to Sutton Coldfield. I have enough time to go to the post office and buy stamps for Christmas cards.

At River Island, a manager wants me to work on the women's department, and the shoes section and the changing room specifically. It’s not too bad but it gets tiring after a while. My four-hour shift is basically spent:

1. Greeting women into the changing room
2. Worrying everyone thinks I'm a pervert for being a man in a women's changing room (it wasn't my idea to work on the women's changing room)
3. Putting unwanted clothes onto a rack
4. Finding shoes in the stockroom
5. Asking customers if they want any help (95% of the time, they don't)

After work I go swimming. It is free under the Birmingham Be Active scheme. The pool has only four people in it. This has been a good idea, I think. I swim for an hour or so.

I return home. My brother is already there. He says, "I've stayed in the house all day. I've realised that I'm a bit like a housewife. Except I don't do any cleaning or tidying up." My dad comes through the door moments later.

I realise that it can be stressful when people share a house. Sure it's cheaper, but I want to do my own things, and in the meantime, there are other people in the same space wanting to do theirs. Not to mention that they talk to me too when I want to get on with my own stuff.

I go to my dad's room, which he only uses to sleep in. It’s quiet and I can be alone. I check my emails. I end up reading a thread about a woman who’s angry at her husband for not wanting to spend more money on their kids’ Christmas presents.

My dad shouts, "I'm going to Costco!" I decide to go too. I had an eyesight test there last week. It was the first eyesight test in my life. My eyesight isn’t bad but I’ve decided to buy a pair of glasses just to see what the improvement will be. I’ll get £37.50 off because I said I'm on jobseeker's allowance (though I'm not... and I hope Costco don't find out).

At Costco, I try the cheapest frames on. My brother doesn’t like them so instead, I choose a pair £20 more expensive that my brother gives a neutral response to. Neutral will do, I think. My first pair of glasses. They will be ready to pick up at some point in the next couple of weeks.

My brother phones my dad to find out where he is. My dad is already back at the car. He’s finishing putting about ten enormous cakes in the car, and a long, thin box of catering napkins. I’m not entirely sure for what. Some kind of party at his school, I guess. In total costs him about £150. I suppose he will get it reimbursed.

At home, I calculate how much I’ve saved by coming to England. It turns out to be only £184! I start writing a blog post called “Has coming to England been a waste of time?” Then I realise I've made a spreadsheet error. I have actually saved £735! My mood changes to elation.

I skype with Girlfriend for forty minutes. I tell her how pleased I am that I made the right decision coming to England. Conversely, she's depressed because her gynaecologist found four cysts in her ovaries (one is seven cm long apparently). She's been put on the waiting list for surgery, which will probably be in April. Oh well, the important thing is that I've saved money. I suggest that I could stay in the UK for another two weeks to save more money, but she says it'd upset her too much.

"Dinner's ready!" my dad shouts. He's made a large pile of cabbage, a few slices of carrot, and a steak. I eat it quickly. I run back upstairs and talk with her again for 40 minutes.

I go downstairs. My brother and Dad are watching a shitty zombie film. I finish writing this.