Dear Diary. My sister Lisa wanted us to come strawberry picking. But I'd rather just get my strawberries from Tesco. Doesn't she know that you don't need to bend down and pick up the strawberries yourself? You can literally just go to Asda or Sainsbury's and just buy them there.

So we've gone strawberry picking.

The strawberry plants are kept in tents. It's 22 degrees today but inside the strawberry tents, it's more like 30. There’s no breeze in the tents, just rows and rows of strawberry plants. I start picking. For every strawberry that goes in the basket, two go in my mouth. Pick, pick, nom nom. Pick, pick, nom nom. This is actually quite fun. By the end, I'll have eaten my weight in strawberries.

You're supposed to pay for the strawberries before you eat them.

Afterwards, instead of paying for the strawberries we've picked, we just sit in the middle of the field eating the strawberries. They're technically now stolen strawberries.

I've never eaten so many strawberries before in my life and I am definitely beginning to feel a bit sick. I estimate I may have eaten about a kilo of strawberries already. Girlfriend thinks it's half a kilo, she says if I've eaten one kilo then I definitely would be having stomach problems by now.

But even if I have "only" eaten half a kilo of strawberries, many of the strawberries I've eaten have been under-ripe. They're too hard, you're not supposed to eat those but I've been eating them anyway of course.

Tomorrow at 6 am we have a flight back to Girona. I'll be on the plane, mid-air, over the English Channel, the fasten seatbelt sign will still be on, and I’ll need to do a strawberry-induced diarrhoea poo, and I'll put my hand up to get the air hostess's attention, and she'll come over, and she'll and say, "What is it sir?" and I'll say, "I really need to use the toilet," and she'll say, "I'm sorry, the captain's put the seatbelt sign on," and I'll be sitting there, really needing to do a poo, and out the window, there'll be grey clouds (there's always grey clouds), and I'll feel a gurgle in my bowels and suddennly I'll lose control and poo my pants with this horrendous wet sticky diarrhoea poo, and I'll be sitting in my poo, the stench stinking up the plane, and I'll have to do a walk of shame down the plane aisle and the air hostesses will have to bring me a new pair of underwear to replace my poo-covered ones.

There’s a scarecrow dressed in a high-vis jacket and every time I turn my head for a moment I think it's one of the staff members watching me eat the strawberries which is against the rules. Whenever I see the scarecrow, I panic and then I almost drop my basket of strawberries, before realizing it's just a scarecrow. I suppose that's why they put the scarecrow there - to scare people like me who are stealing strawberries. It hasn't worked though: I'm still eating stolen strawberries.

My hands are red. 4-year-old thinks I've cut myself because it looks like blood but it's actually juice from the stolen strawberries and raspberries I've been eating. When I get to the checkout, they're going to look at my suspiciously small number of strawberries in my basket (three) and then look at my red hands and ask if I've been eating them. I'll say "No" but then they'll ask me, "So why are your hands so red?" and, a-ha, they’ll have caught me 'red-handed'.

By the way, today I spoke to my dad's next-door neighbour, Shirley Morgan. She says that they're moving house to go live in a bungalow because her son Andrew has problems getting up and down the stairs. They've been living next door to my dad for 33 years, so the Morgans moving makes me a bit emotional. I guess everything eventually comes to an end, including neighbours (real neighbours and the TV show Neighbours). Everything's eventual, as Stephen King said.

Also, my dad keeps saying he wants to retire, he's a teacher. He's sixty years old now. He says he enjoys his teaching job but it makes him too tired. He has a plan to buy a canal boat and live on that. He's been saying this for years now though so we'll see if he actually does it. He also said he might sell the house. This is the house that I and my siblings grew up in. I don't know how I would feel when he sells his house. I mean, for me, that's my home! Fuck. Everything's changing.

Here's a poem I wrote:

What is a man without a home?

What is a dog without a bone?

What is E.T. without a phone?

What is a man without a home?