The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Dear Diary. I have a slight tear in my toenail. It's probably not a big deal but it keeps getting caught on the inside of my shoe, causing me pain. Girlfriend has a friend who’s a foot doctor. So I sent him a photo of my toenail via WhatsApp and said “I have a broken toenail, should I come see you?”

“You’ll need to come see me,” the doctor replied.

So today at 9:45 am I left the house on my electric scooter and rode it to where the doctor works. Girlfriend had given me the directions but I hadn't been listening because I already knew where it was. It was a big hospital on the edge of town.

I locked up my scooter outside the hospital. I went inside.

“I’m here to see Dr Juan Figueres,” I said to the receptionist.

"Who?"

I showed her his webpage on my phone. It said DR JUAN FIGUERES and had a profile photo of his bald bespectacled head.

She looked at my phone and laughed. “That’s at Clinica Bofill.”

“Is this not Clinica Bofill?” I said.

“This is Clinica Girona.” She gave me a look of incredulity.

I knew she was wrong so I walked around until I found a different receptionist.

“Is there a doctor here called Dr Juan Figures?” I asked her.

“What’s his speciality?”

“Feet.”

“There are no foot doctors here,” she said.

Maybe he wasn't here after all. Girlfriend was to blame for this.

I thought about calling the doctor to find out where he was. But what if he was in the middle of some important foot examination? I couldn’t just call him and say, “Where are you?”

I knew Clinica Bofill was back near my apartment, in the centre of town. So I rode my scooter over there. I've been stretching my back this week my back now feels young and supple. I enjoyed my new mobility by swinging my hips from side to side while riding the scooter, imagining I was Tony Hawk riding a skateboard.

I reached Clinical Bofill. I locked the scooter up and went inside. I showed the receptionist my phone. “I’m here to see Dr Juan Figueres.”

She squinted at my phone. “You’re in the wrong place. This is Clinica Bofill Girona Centre. You want Clinica Bofill Migdia.”

I swear all this is true.

I typed "Clinica Bofill Girona Centre" into my phone and there it was: on the other side of town, where I’d just come from. I had passed it twice without even noticing it. It was next to the hospital I'd just been to, Clinica Girona.

For the second time that day, I double-backed. Ten minutes later I was at the correct place. I locked the scooter to a bike rack, taking care not to let the wheels of my scooter run over a ladybird that was crawling on the ground. If I'm an idiot at least I can be kind.

I went inside.

“I'm here to see Dr Juan Figures,” I said to the receptionist.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, but he's a friend of my girlfriend, and he said it'd be fine if I just showed up."

"Okay, please take a seat in the waiting room."

I sat in the waiting room. I have a cold and my nose kept filling up with mucus. I blew my nose with a tissue but five minutes later, the mucus had come back. I blew my nose again. I have two tissues in my pocket and when one gets too covered in snot, I switch to another one. When the second tissue is too covered in snot, I switch back to the first because by that point it's dry enough to use again.

Tinkling piano music played from hidden speakers. I could hear an elderly couple talking to the doctor from behind the door. It sounded like they were having a nice chat. The wait was interminable.

Finally the elderly couple came out. I had been sitting in the waiting room for half an hour. The doctor called me in.

"Hi Paul, how's it going?" he said.

"I got went to the wrong place. Then I went to another wrong place."

He did something to my toenail that took about two minutes. I don't even know what it was.

"Well, that's it. All done," said the doctor.

"That's it?" I said.

"That's it."

***

In the afternoon, I went to the library for three hours. I did some work. My keyboard went clickety-clack. The library makes me productive. I could feel the productivity flowing through me; I pulled out bad sentences like yanking out weeds.

Gordon sent me a message saying he was having a glass of wine at a cafe in a nearby park, so after the library, I went to go see him. He was sitting at a table with a man called Irish Dave. Irish Dave is balding and middle-aged. He looks a bit like Antony Worrall Thompson. (Only Gordon calls him "Irish Dave", his real name is David.) I met Irish Dave already, back in May, at Gordon's party celebrating 25 years of living abroad. At the party, Irish Dave was with his blue-haired wife Valetia but there was no sign of her today.

"She's back in England," Irish Dave explained. "Her dad's got a terminal illness. She's been back to England a lot to be with him. She'll back this weekend though."

"Oh right. Sorry to hear that," I said.

Gordon interjected: "It's been a bad year. Irish Dave has pulled his back recently. He's had time off work."

Gordon then went on to explain other misfortunes afflicting his other friends, like how his friend Chris fell ill a month ago with suspected Covid and now has dental problems. And how Chris's wife Vanessa had her house broken into. Plus Vanessa's dad's died.

It's all misery, misery, misery. It made me feel cheerful as their problems made my own problems seem dull in comparison. I wanted to stay longer to hear more but had to leave after five minutes; I had to rush home to look after the kids because Girlfriend had a parent meeting at 6-year-old's Scouts. Anyway, Gordon's invited me to his house for lunch this Sunday, so maybe I can learn more then.

***

I had this conversation with 6-year-old tonight:

• Me: It's time for bed.
• 6-year-old: Daddy, I'm bored.
• Me: You're bored? But you're going to bed. Bed's not meant to be exciting. It's for sleeping.
• 6-year-old: But sleeping is boring.
• Me: When I go to bed, I close my eyes and let my imagination think of things.
• 6-year-old: I try not to do that because then I get nightmares.
• Me: Oh right.
• 6-year-old: I don't want to get old. I want to be a kid all my life.
• Me: What do you mean, get old? Old like your grandmother?
• 6-year-old: No, I mean old like you. I don't want to become an adult.
• Me: Right.
• 6-year-old: Can I have some juice?
• *I go get him some juice*
• Me: Here's your juice. I'm not very good at putting you to bed. Your mom's better at you putting you to bed.
• 6-year-old: Daddy, if you want to be better at putting me to bed, you have to be bossy like Mommy.
• Me: Okay.
• 6-year-old: One possible future is you become bossy like Mommy. Another possible future is there's an explosion and the world blows up.
• Me: Well, the world might not end for a long time. Maybe millions of years from now. Goodnight.
• 6-year-old: Goodnight.