The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Dear Diary. Girlfriend's gone to Madrid for the weekend, leaving me alone with the kids, which is pretty irresponsible of her. It's not like I've ever gone away and left her to look after the kids by herself. Actually, thinking about it, I have done that. Five times in the past two years.

Well, anyway, fuck her, for leaving me alone with the kids.

Also: fuck. I've been left alone with the kids.

It all started in the afternoon, when I picked 1-year-old up from nursery. But today was Friday and the gym had a Bodycombat class at 6 pm. I wanted to go. In fact, I felt a strange, almost physical need to do the Bodycombat class. Then I realised that Bodycombat is my substitute for sex. My girlfriend and I don't have sex anymore — not since the second kid — and going to Bodycombat classes is the way I channel my sexual needs into something physical. Actually, gym classes and sex actually have a lot in common. Both have physical exertion, sweat, and half-naked women bending into sexy poses.

I phoned my mother-in-law and asked if she could look after the kids for an hour. She said it would be okay. Yes! Bodycombat was on!

First, though, 6-year-old had a judo thing. And today was the day when parents had to go and watch. So I found myself in a sports hall watching kids scurry across the floor like beetles and then hop up and down the mat backwards on one leg. Then they did some play-fighting. Then at the end, they played a game where one kid was the dog and had to chase the other kids on their hands and knees. Any kid who got caught also became a dog. It was exciting, watching children pretending to be a pack of dogs and trying to catch a scared five-year-old. I wish I'd played this game at school. Then again, my headteacher, Mr Gospel, wouldn't have liked it. He banned us from playing British Bulldog because one kid got hurt. He also banned conkers, presumably because he thought conkers were lethal weapons in the hands of ten-year-olds.

The judo thing was finally over. I checked the time and saw I could make it to Bodycombat class on time if I hurried. But 6-year-old was taking ages getting changed out of his judogi. Meanwhile, on another bench, two four-year-olds were getting themselves dressed quickly, happily without a fuss.

I felt myself getting angry.

"He's always slow at getting dressed," I remarked to one of the judo teachers. "Even in the morning, he takes ages to get ready for school."

She frowned. "I think he's been doing really well. I've been encouraging him to get dressed by himself, and to take care of his things."

I found myself crouching down and putting 6-year-old's shoes on for him.

I dropped the kids off at their grandmother's. Then I ran to the Bodycombat class. I got there twelve minutes late. The only free spot was in the corner at the back of the class. It was next to a black man. I've never seen him before.

Near the end of the class, I punched harder by pretending I was punching my school bully, Michael Cotton. But in my imagination, he wasn't bullying me anymore but my six-year-old son instead. I smashed every uppercut, jab, and hook into his cold, mean, sneering face. You can bully me, Michael Cotton, but you can't bully my son.

After the class, I picked up the kids from their grandmother's. Then I took the kids home and we ate pizza for dinner, in front of the TV. Both kids went to bed an hour past their bedtimes.

So far, I've survived. But Girlfriend doesn't come back until Sunday. I don't know if I can survive until then.