The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Dear Diary. My dad's driving us to East Midlands Airport, and by 'us' I mean me, my girlfriend and my two kids, and not you, reader. Sorry if I disappointed you there.

"Do you know the way?" I ask my dad.

He sighs and says, "Yeah, I just follow the satnav."

As he says this, the satnav tells him to turn right. But instead of turning right, my dad drives straight on instead.

"Weren't you supposed to turn right there?" I ask, turning my head to look out the window at the missed road we should have taken.

He sighs and tuts. "I'm taking the A38," he says.

"Why?" I ask. "Is it faster?"

"It's the way I always take," he says.

Now the satnav's telling us to turn around. But my dad ignores the satnav and carries straight on instead.

I check the route on my phone. My phone agrees with the satnav: we should turn around and go back the other way. But my dad's taking the A38, a route that goes in a big, unnecessary arc around Staffordshire, past far-flung places like Barton-upon-Needwood and Branston.

"Bloody hell dad, you're going the wrong way," I say. "You're heading away from the airport, not to it."

My dad tuts as if it's my fault. "Well, what do I do? Keep going or turn around?"

"Turn around, it'll be faster," I say.

So at the next roundabout, my dad turns the car around. Now we're going back the way we came.

"Google Maps says the journey should take 40 minutes," I say.

My dad tuts. "It never takes 40 minutes to East Midlands Airport," he says. "It's always an hour."

"Jesus Christ, Dad, it's always an hour because you always take the long route," I say.

His entire life my dad's been driving to East Midlands Airport the long way round.

We get to the airport 40 minutes later. "That did actually seem faster," my dad concedes.

He drops us off at the airport.

1 PM

We're on the plane. In the seats behind us are a sprightly elderly couple wearing identical pink shirts. In front of us is a middle-aged couple. The man is wearing a grey Tommy Hilfiger tracksuit and a Tommy Hilfiger cap. I didn't see his underpants but presumably, they were Tommy Hilfiger too. His wife has the face of a man. It's a builder's face: large and sun-damaged. Contrasting with her worn, rough face are her carefully sculpted black eyebrows. To the left of us is an elderly woman enjoying her own portable fan powered by a battery.

I let 1-year-old wander around the aisles of the plane. As usual, 1-year-old charms everyone on the plane with his smile. I wish I was a one-year-old so I could charm all the people on the plane too, particularly the hot mom sitting a few rows in front of me. But instead, I'm 36 and have the personality of a trout.

3 PM

We're back in hot sunny Spain. We're sitting on a bus weaving its way towards Girona. The ground and grass look dry. The plants are a dull green colour. Not like the vibrant green plants back in England.

The signs are all in Spanish, except the signs that are in Catalan, which is a second language spoken in this region of Spain. Just my luck that I live in a place where there are two languages to learn instead of one.

7 PM

I have to pick up a parcel from the post office but I don't know what it is. I have to pick it up today or they'll send it back. So I go to the post office, pay a customs charge of €6.73, and open the parcel.

Surprise: It's a book called Yay! You're Gay! Now What? A Gay Guy's Guide to Life. The cover is pink and has a rainbow. Yes, this is a real book I've bought. It's not a joke. I bought it to find out more about the plight of gay people, not because I'm secretly gay. Honest.