The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Dear Diary. It's 4:30 am. I'm awake because I have an early flight to Girona. There's an Uber outside waiting for me. Outside, it's dark and raining. I get in the car. The driver's name is Bereket Ghereweldi and he drives me to the airport in silence, and it's for this reason that he's the best taxi driver I've ever had. I hate taxi drivers who talk to me. I feel like they're forcing me to make conversation because I have no choice but to sit there and listen. I'm trapped in a car with them. It's the same with hairdressers: they talk non-stop. If I could find a mute hairdresser, one who only communicates in sign language, I'd be overjoyed.

Bereket drops me off at the airport. I give him the 5 stars he deserves and walk into the airport. It's now 5 am. My eyes are tired. They feel heavy like I'm wearing an iron ring over each one. I go through security and get on the plane. The plane's mostly empty. Somehow, by a miracle, the seats around me are all empty and I get four rows to myself. Luck must be on my side today.

A couple of hours later, we're flying over the hills and mountains of Spain.

The plane passes over towns. The towns look like toy towns. Tiny cars are driving along the roads. If there was a car crash, I'd expect the cars to bounce off each other harmlessly and then a bunch of dolls dressed as firemen to come out and push the cars back upright again.

Finally, the plane lands in Girona airport. I go through passport control. I go through customs. Then I sit outside and wait for the bus. Making a contrast to wet and cold England, Spain is hot today, and I soon feel uncomfortable in the heat. As I wait for the bus to arrive, I write in my notebook about the day so far.

I love my notebook, by the way. It has a beautiful shiny cover and nice thick pages. What's more, I've got six months' worth of writing inside it. It'd be a tragedy if I lost my notebook. Thankfully I'm too careful with my belongings to ever lose anything. (Notwithstanding the half-eaten Caramac bar and the chocolate-filled cake I lost yesterday.)

The bus comes. I have my rucksack on my back, my notebook in one hand and my coat in the other hand. I get on the bus. The bus drives to Girona. I pick up my rucksack and coat and get off the bus.

On the walk home, I pass by 5-year-old's school. I look through the school fence and there's 5-year-old, in the playground.

"5-year-old!" I say. I wave to him.

He runs over.

"Are you back already Daddy?" he says.

"Yeah," I say.

"Daddy I want to see your crystal."

"Okay, let me find it."

I put my rucksack on the pavement and start digging around to find the crystal I won at The Crystal Maze Experience yesterday. I say 'won' but I actually bought it at the gift shop for £12.50, but I still choose to believe I won it. They didn't let me take home a crystal for free like they do on the show, even though they obviously should have.

I know the crystal's in here somewhere but I can't find it. I take out my trousers. I take out my socks and underwear. A couple of old women are watching. Finally, my hand lands on the crystal.

"Found it," I say. I hold it up for 5-year-old to see.

"Ooooooooooooh," says 5-year-old. "It's a diamond."

5-year-old runs around the playground shouting, "I'M RICH! I'M RICH!"

He thinks it's a diamond. He doesn't know it only cost £12.50.

Then suddenly, a woman on the street says, "Leave those children alone."

"But he's my son," I say.

"Oh. Well still, leave them alone. It's their playtime." And she walks away.

Maybe she thinks I'm a paedophile trying to groom school kids by showing them my underwear.

Anyway, I finally get home. It's wonderful to be home. The first thing I do is make a sandwich with some leftover chicken from the fridge. Then I realise I haven't done a poo for two days. So I start eating flax seeds from a jar. If you ever need to do a poo, eat flax seeds. It never fails. Flax seeds always make me do an explosive poo about an hour after eating them.

I'm eating flax seeds with a spoon and reading a blog on my phone when I realise I've already eaten half the jar of flax seeds. That's a lot of flax seeds. I estimate I've eaten two days worth of fibre in less than ten minutes. So I put the jar back. I want to do a poo but I don't want my anus to explode.

I take a hot shower and get dressed in clean clothes. Then I start emptying my rucksack to put the contents away. And it's then I realise something: I can't find my notebook. I can't find the notebook I write my diary and notes in.

I can't believe this. I've lost my notebook, the only book that matters.

I remember I had my notebook in my hand when I was on the bus. Shit. So I must have left the notebook on the bus.

I run to the bus station.

The bus is there.

"I've lost a notebook," I say to the driver. "I think I left it on the bus. Can I go have a look for it?"

"It won't be on this bus," the driver says, frowning at me. "I've just started."

Has he just started? Is he the same driver or a different one? I don't know. All the bus drivers look alike: bald, middle-aged men. There's no telling them apart.

So I go to the ticket counter and ask there. The man at the ticket counter doesn't have my notebook either. He gives me a number to call instead.

So I go home. I still haven't done a poo so I eat a few more spoonfuls of flax seeds. Then suddenly, I get the urge to do a poo. I run to the bathroom. But as soon as I sit down on the toilet the urge goes away. So I go back and eat some more flax seeds.

Ten minutes later, the urge to poo comes again. I sit on the toilet. But the poo still won't come out. So I pull out my phone and type funky fusk into Instagram. Up pops pictures of an Italian Instagram model called funky.fusk. For some reason, looking at pictures of her relaxes my bowels and makes the poo come out. Maybe it's because she's a sexy young Italian woman who likes to post photos of her cleavage. And it works because with an almighty push, the poo squeezes out my bumhole and shoots into the toilet. I look in the toilet. It's a big poo. A huge poo. No wonder it wouldn't come out earlier. Thanks, funky fusk. She's doing my bowels a favour by posting semi-pornographic pictures of herself.

When Girlfriend comes home, I ask her to phone the bus depot for me to ask about my missing notebook. She calls them. They take her phone number, the bus I was on, and what the notebook looked like. "It's a blue notebook with lots of scribbles inside," says Girlfriend. The woman on the other end promises to call back tomorrow. Somehow I doubt I'll ever see that notebook again. Who knows what wonders and marvels the world will miss out on now I've lost my notebook. It's like if Leonardo Da Vinci lost his drawings of inventions.