The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Dear Diary. Today is one of the last days of the summer. The weather is hot and uncomfortable. A thin layer of sweat coats my skin at all times.

I see one pale kid wearing a big, thick coat, with his hood up. He looks about 3-years-old and has a pale face. My first thought is that he's an autistic kid and he has to wear his coat or he’ll have a meltdown. He looks happy enough; he's holding his mum’s hand as they walk down the street together.

I drive 3-year-old and Girlfriend to 3-year-old’s speech therapy, which he goes to every couple of months.

He has trouble saying certain letters, you see. Like the letters R and S. So instead of saying "Horse" he'll say "Whore".

This led to an interesting exchange where he was eating toast.

"You can eat the cum," he said while munching on a piece of toast.

"Uh... the cum?" I said.

"The cum," he said. "You can eat the cum, Daddy."

A list of acquaintances who could be secret paedophiles went through my head. Then I realised what he was trying to say: "You can eat the crumbs."

On the drive back home, I listen to "Clocks" by Coldplay. I haven’t heard Coldplay for a long time. It used to be one of my favourite bands, along with Red Hot Chilli Peppers. I’d listen to Coldplay and Red Hot Chilli Peppers over and over while running around with an AK47 in Counter-Strike and getting shot to death by better players. As a teenager, I only owned two CDs: Red Hot Chilli Peppers and the other was Blur's Think Tank now I come to think of it.

Listening to “Clocks” again, I start looking at Coldplay in a whole new light. It’s like when you have a co-worker who you’ve been working with for 20 years, and up to now they’ve looked boring and ugly, but then one day you look at them in a different way and realise they're the love of your life, and you get married and even the office cleaner comes to your wedding.

As I’m listening to the music, I think it’s a shame that no one else is listening to this, I’m the only one in the car who can hear it.

"Clocks" ends. Nothing can top that. Then Radiohead’s “High and Dry” comes on. Suddenly, there's a 90s party in my car and everyone's invited.

When I was a kid in the 90s, every week there was a new great song. Every week, on CD:UK and Top of the Pops, a new number 1, a new song that everyone knew. Those were the magic times. Nowadays, music is like a coin rattling around in an empty bucket. Nowadays, music sounds all the same.

Then again, old people have always been saying that, throughout all of time, even back when Socrates first banged two sticks together. Maybe I’m just getting old.

Today's moving day. I go home and get a few minutes of peace, where I eat breakfast and read on my phone.

Then the madness begins.

Girlfriend calls me to tell me that the internet guy is coming early. So I grab the TV, the modem and the TV box and hurry to the new apartment. The streets are full of people. I get stuck behind two old people, walking so slowly that they're almost moving backwards. None one supports my idea of sticking all old people into a battle arena and making them fight to the death, like in Hunger Games. I don't know why.

And of course there’s a bloody forklift truck on the pavement as well because there are some works going on. There's a man actually driving the forklift truck on the pavement, where people actually walk.

I get to the front door of the new apartment and there's a smell of sawdust and other fine particulate matter, the kind that gives you lung cancer and slowly robs you of IQ points. I open the front door and I can hear the builder working on the bathroom. The whole apartment smells like dust now, I can feel it entering my lungs and causing my alveoli to turn black and cancerous. My grandad actually died of lung cancer so I’m worried about pollution. Then again, he was also 89, and at that age, you've got to die of something.

The internet guy comes. He only speaks Spanish.

"Hola amigo," he says. "Me llamo Gustavo."

Now's the time for me to put all those Spanish lessons to good use. Except I can't because I haven't taken any Spanish lessons. I've been too busy reading Reddit on my phone to take Spanish lessons.

"Hola," I say. "Me llamo Paul." I can speak a bit of Spanish, thanks to living here in Spain for the past four years.

"Donde quieres el módem?"

"Aqui, aqui," I say, leading him into the living room.

"Vale. Aqui?"

"Si, aqui." There's a bit more to our conversation than that but that's about the gist of it. It takes him an hour to install the internet.

"Es mucho trabajo!" I say to him when he's finished.

"Aqui?" he says, surprised. "No, aqui era muy senzillo."

The moving van comes at 3:30 pm. There's not much to say except all our stuff goes onto van and comes off at the new apartment.

At 6 pm there's a gym class called Bodycombat. It mostly involves punching and kicking the air. I like it because you get to pretend you’re punching people and kneeing them in the groin.

I leave it to the last minute to get there. But on the way there, I realise I'm wearing flip-flops, so I have to run back, get my trainers, and then run all the way to the gym so as not to be late. By the time I got there, I'm already red and out-of-breath. I get there one minute before the start of the class.

As usual, I think, "Why the fuck did I come here?" before it's too late and the class begins.

There are 35 of us in the room, plus the instructor, a man called Sergi. Sergi has the perfect personality for a gym instructor. He's extroverted and a bit cheeky, like a Butlins Redcoat. He shows us what to do and we copy him. Jab, jab, cross. Uppercut, uppercut, side kick, front kick. All 35 of us are performing the moves in synchronisation. An outsider might think Sergi is training the next generation of assassins, like the Red Room from the Marvel comics, instead of just helping some slightly fat people get a bit fitter.

There's a short girl at the front who does all the moves with furious intensity. Punching, kicking, jumping jacks, push-ups: she does them all with more energy than the instructor, than Mr Motivator even. than Sportacus from Lazytown even. I'm mesmerised. Where does she get her energy from? BAM BAM BAM BAM, FUCK YOU, down go her imaginary opponents, while the rest of us are doing super-weak punches like we’re half-heartedly trying to fight snowmen.

If I had to fight her, she'd kick my ass. (That's a lie. I'm much taller and I would simply hold her back at arm's length.)

After the class, I go back to the old apartment and take a shower. After the shower, I can’t find any clean pants. I’m about to go commando but then I realise there are some clean clothes drying outside, and luckily there are some pants there. I must have forgotten to take them to the new apartment. For once, my forgetfulness has paid off.

It's time to put 3-year-old to bed. Then we realise we forgot his pillow at the old apartment, so I have to back there to fetch it. Once I get back with his pillow, he falls asleep. Now he's snoring.

Now it’s 10 o’clock at night and the day is done. I’m ready to fall asleep but I’ve forgotten my melatonin at the old apartment, so I have to go there and get it. It’s medication to help you fall asleep. I probably don’t need it tonight because I’m so fucking knackered but I’m going to get it anyway.

Yesterday I saw a big cockroach. I haven't seen any yet tonight though. But every time I walk into the kitchen of the new apartment, I always keep an eye on my feet in case there’s a cockroach about to crawl on them.