Dear Diary. Today we go to a trampoline park. At the risk of sounding like an old man, we didn't have trampoline parks back in my day. All we had were chavs trying to stab us with rusty kitchen knives as we came out of the Co-op. That and Laser Quest. Progress is an amazing thing.

Three adults, including me, are watching five children. Children don't need this much supervision. It's a trampoline park, for Christ's sake. It's safe.

So I leave the kids alone for a few seconds while I shoot some b-ball on a trampoline. You have to throw balls into a hoop while bouncing on a trampoline. Everything here is trampoline-themed, you see. I miss the hoop every single time.

When I look back, 3-year-old is somehow trapped under the arm of a spinning obstacle. It's like an obstacle from Wipeout, one that spins and you have to jump over. But 3-year-old must have forgotten to jump and so the obstacle knocked him over. It's now crushing the life out of him. "Christ," I say while leaping down into the obstacle pit like Conan the Barbarian. The other children are just standing there, watching, the useless bastards.

I drag 3-year-old out from under the gigantic robotic arm of the Wipeout machine.

He's in shock. He's almost about to cry.

I take 3-year-old to one side. "That was scary," he says.

After that, he's reluctant to go on anything else. "Everything here is scary," he says.

Okay, so maybe three-year-olds do need supervision after all.

Back at home, the kitchen wall needs painting because there are grease marks on it from our cooking over the years. Girlfriend finds the tin of paint. I prize it open with a screwdriver. The tin of paint has been left for so long that it has separated into two layers: a watery layer on the top and a thick layer like plasticine on the bottom.

I have a vague memory of my dad mixing paint with a spanner. So I try that. In goes my spanner. (And by spanner, I mean a real actual spanner, not my penis.) Stir, stir, stir. And of course it doesn't work. The two layers refuse to join together. Like the id and the ego. Yin and yang. Two distinct beings, reliant on each other but refusing to merge.

So I try to paint with the watery stuff. First I strip down to my pants so I don't get my clothes dirty. Then 3-year-old comes and wants to paint. He does this by getting paint on the floor, skirting board and light switch.

Later that day I find myself still wearing nothing but pants while 3-year-old lies on the bed saying “I’m Santa, I’m Santa”. What has happened to my life.