Dear Diary. 3-year-old went back to school today. Now he's in a year called P4 and that means that he's no longer in the youngest class in the school. All the parents were there to see the kids off. I was like, what's the big deal? We're going to come back in eight hours to come and pick them back up again.

I got home and Girlfriend was bugging me to do the painting. I have to paint the kitchen walls in the old apartment because they've got bloody oil stains on them and cumin stains and I don't know. So I go to the old apartment. I don't know why I'm the one who has to paint. I don't know much about painting, just like I don't know much about anything really. But because I painted an apartment last year, a couple of years ago, it's down to me now to paint this kitchen. The first thing I have to do is mix the paint. And online, it says to use a coat hanger and to put a coat hanger into an electric drill so I do that and it actually works. And then I get to work, painting. Steve Jobs, he never did this shit or Bill Gates, and look at them, they're both bloody billionaires, or at least Steve Jobs was before he died.

*****

It's 5:10 pm and I've timed my next trip poorly because as I'm lugging a suitcase and an old lady's shopping trolley behind me, the street is full of teenagers who have just come out of school and there are literally hundreds of them; I'm not exaggerating. As I tried to get through them, I keep my eyes straight ahead, ignoring the jailbait 14-year-old girls and the testosterone-fuelled boys. Luckily, they're too absorbed with themselves and each other to even notice me. I get through without even a single teenager shouting “Oi you wanker” at me.

Some of them are smoking even though they're probably too young to legally smoke. They're at that age where the only thing that matters is being cool, something that I've never come close to. One two times have I been called 'cool': the first was when I cut a slit in my eyebrow and my sister said it looked cool, and the second was when I killed two people in Counter-Strike and someone wrote "Johnny Ray is cool" (Johnny Ray was my Counter-Strike name).

*****

Once more unto to the breach. It's now 6 o'clock and with one hand I'm dragging a suitcase with a plant balanced on top of it, and with the other hand I'm pulling an old lady trolley filled with plants and birthday wrapping paper. Is this why our grandparents fought in the war? So we could drag our belongings around behind us? I don't know the answer. All I know is that I have to keep going.