The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Dear Diary. This morning I went downstairs and I could hear Dad snoring loudly on the sofa. Each snore was followed by seconds of silence, and then a snort. It was the kind of snoring I imagine people with sleep apnea have. I felt sorry for him. He probably needs a CPAP machine like Happy Hogan wears in Spider-Man: No Way Home. However, this being Erdington, it's unlikely the local NHS clinic has CPAP machines, they probably have CRAP machines instead, or they'll just strap an accordion to his head. That's if he could even get a doctor's appointment.

In the morning we went to Cannock Chase. I used to think Cannock Chase was a notorious dogging hotspot, the place where George Michael was caught taking cocaine and cruising for sex with strangers. However, I realised I was actually thinking of Hampstead Heath, which is an easy mistake because both placenames alliterate, like Clark Kent.

Dad drove us there. Once again his driving was dangerous. At one point we were coming off the spaghetti junction onto the M6, and he was driving 46 on a road with a 30 sign.

We arrived at Cannock Chase. Dad parked, strode into the visitor centre, and paid £3.50 for parking. At that point, I realised we were in the wrong car park. The car park my brother and sister were at was three miles away. Dad got angry because he had wasted £3.50. It wasn't my fault, I had assumed he knew where he was driving to. We all had to get back in the car. Dad then drove us to the correct car park. The satnav said it was only a 6-minute drive there, but Dad made it in 4 minutes by driving recklessly like in Fast and Furious.

We found my brother and sister. My brother Adam and my brother-in-law Phil were playing disc golf. I've never heard of it before. It's like golf but with a frisbee instead of a ball. You have to throw the frisbee through a forest into a net.

"Can I have a go?" I said.

"Wait," said Adam. "You know what Paul's gonna do, don't you? He's gonna throw it in a tree."

I threw the frisbee and it bounced off a tree and landed in a thistle bush. Luckily no one saw as they were already off further into the forest. I climbed onto a log and tried to fish it out but I couldn't reach it. I went around to the other side, found the frisbee, and got it out.

It started to rain. We went and had lunch in the park's cafe. I'd brought crisps and sandwiches with me because food at park cafes is expensive. Last week I saw a man pay £80 for lunch for his family at West Midlands Safari Park, something I'll never forget.

The rain stopped and we went to the playground. The weather was cold and I was wearing a t-shirt and shorts. I had a jumper but it was at home. I couldn't wait to get indoors where it was warm. Meanwhile, 6-year-old was taking photos using my phone. I saw a photo of myself and the wind had made my hair stand straight up, like a mohawk, or an extreme Tintin. I need hair gel to stop that from happening.

***

I do freelance work for a man called Graham. He owns a dental practice and he pays me to look after the website. I arranged to meet Graham today.

My dad gave me a lift to Graham's clinic. "I've got a splitting headache," said my dad, on the way there. "It feels like there's an axe in the back of my skull. It's the worst headache I've ever had in me life. I think I've got flu coming on. All my joints ache."

We pulled into the car park of the dental clinic. "I'll wait in the car," said my dad.

I went inside. The receptionist told me to have a seat. I had been waiting for about ten minutes when Graham walked in. At first I wasn't sure it was him. He'd changed since I last met him, six months ago. He looked older, tired. His face was thinner and more gaunt like Barack Obama after two terms of being president. He didn't look like the owner of a million-pound dental practice. He was wearing what looked like a cheap coat. His hair looked like his mom had cut it for him with a bowl.

He walked past me without recognising me.

Five minutes later my phone rang. It was Graham. I answered the phone.

"Hi Paul. Is that you sitting in reception?" he said.

"Yep, it's me."

"Come on up."

I went upstairs to the office. There were desks, computers, phones. On the back wall was a big corkboard with the names and faces of every staff member at the clinic. There were over a hundred faces. (It's a big clinic.)

The office was deserted. The only person there was Graham.

"Sorry, I thought I saw you but I wasn't sure," he said. "I have a problem with faces."

It could be worse: he could have a problem with faeces.

We spent about ten minutes setting up my admin level on Google Ads. Then he spent the rest of the time complaining about his life.

"Paul, I'm 58," he said. "I'm getting too old to do this anymore. Look at this."

He opened his email inbox. There were 567 unread emails.

"I'm inundated," he said. "There's no way I can reply to all these emails. When I reply to one, another one appears."

(He has a Birmingham accent and a surprisingly soft voice, by the way.)

"Can't you get an assistant?" I said.

"I have two. They're both stretched to the limit. I'm basically drowning in work. But I have two years and then I retire," he said.

He explained he's slowly selling the practice to another company. Right now he only owns 35%. Next March it’ll be 18%. Then the March after that it’ll be 0%. At that point, the new owner of the practice will fire me, I guess.

I haven't mentioned yet that Graham's the father of three young children, aged 2, 3, and 5.

"At least tomorrow's a bank holiday," said Graham, with a pleasantly relaxed smile.

"What, are you going home to spend time with your kids?" I asked.

He looked surprised, then said, "No, tomorrow I'm going to be here, replying to emails. If I work all day then maybe I can reply to two hundred."

***

In the evening we went to my sister Lisa's house. My brother and I played Mario Kart on the TV. My brother beat me. As a kid, I used to be the best at Mario Kart. It makes me genuinely wonder if I'm any good at anything anymore.