The Diary of Jolon Fairweather
49. Twenty Minutes of Silence
Before they come for me.
Wrote some of this yesterday. It was raining, so didn’t post it. Am just tidying the flat for the viewing, thought I’d read it again.
\\\\\\\\\
Yesterday:
Mortgage is due. I’m out of luck. Would’ve been fine if work gave a fuck. Would’ve been fine if I’d passed the interview test. Would’ve passed the test if that dog let me rest. There’s one thing to blame for all this mess, Fucking Princess.
Cause and effect. Bark and ruin. She wormed into my head and chewed through the wires.
Wore tights on my head last night. Saw an X post saying it blocks out noise. Laid there at 3 am, dressed like the Hamburglar, listening to screeching through the walls.
My job. My health. My prospects. All lost because of her campaign.
Have tried everything. Earplugs. Music. Booze. Tights. Writing.
Just want silence.
//////////////////////////////////////////
Today:
Must have been in a mood. Just wandering round the flat. Looking at the memories in every corner. My ghosts in the walls.
Laughter in the kitchen. Tears in the bedroom. Screams in the kitchen. Blood in the bedroom.
Found a cactus under the bed. Dead now.
Maybe Princess will shut her yap for twenty fucking minutes today. Please.
If the viewing goes well, I can sell. Disappear before they come for me. But she won’t let it. She wants everyone to know what I did.
Bark. Bark. Bark. The moment they step through the door., she’ll make sure they don’t want to live here.
Should’ve strangled her the day I failed the interview. Hours of planning. Pointless. She made it pointless.
Maybe they’re the kind of people who don’t care. Maybe they like noise.
Or maybe they’ll be like everyone else. They’ll hear her. See me. Smile politely. Leave.
No more pretending this isn’t my problem. No more waiting. Vamos.
48. Be More Like Sir Nolan
Take the money and run.
Still haven’t used the kettle since that thing. Will get a new one tomorrow. A plastic one. Have been using the microwave to boil water, like it’s the Middle Ages.
People (and robots) keep calling it a panic attack. Maybe. Or maybe it was something worse.
Downloaded a digital wellbeing app over breakfast. Some non-branded Coco Pops. The app’s been buzzing at me all day.
“Turn off notifications to reduce distractions.”
Will book that holiday. Keep saying it to myself. Was reading about the Maldives last night. Looks beautiful. Expensive. They don’t let dogs in.
It’s been worse this week. Constant. Relentless. Working up to something. Judgement. My reckoning
What would Sir Nolan do?
He wouldn’t tolerate this nonsense, that’s for sure. He’d take a stand. Make a speech about harmony and shared spaces. The kind that gets applause. Leaves people clapping as they bleed.
Then he’d point, raise a gloved finger, and say “Enough.” People respect a man who says enough.
Someone’s viewing the flat on Wednesday. A young couple from Margate. I’m still hoping to make a few quid from the sale.
Estate agent doesn’t think so. Says I’ll end up with a mortgage debt. Will the bank take their cut before I can run to the Maldives with it all?
I need to be more like Sir Nolan. Make my own rules. Take what I want. Remove problems with a sword. Or a dog biscuit stuffed with rat poison.
47. Keep Calm
It started in my chest. Like excitement, but wrong.
My body was getting ready for something my brain hadn’t been told about.
Wasn’t pain. Was a little charge from nowhere. A tickle under the breastbone. Enough to make me stop and tense up. Something wasn’t right.
Heart was pounding. Could feel it in my ears. Has this happened before? Everything seemed wrong. Not different. Wrong. Like watching an old US sitcom.
Was in my kitchen. In front of the kettle. Holding the knife. Didn’t know what to do. Sit down? Lie down? Body wanted to run. Tried deep breaths. Made me fixate on it too much. I couldn’t breathe without thinking about breathing.
Wasn’t sure if I could still walk. Looked at my phone. Nothing to help. No one to call.
Didn’t want to die on my own in the kitchen. Saw my reflection in the kettle. Needed to leave. Body wanted to run.
I yanked the door open. Flew down the stairs. Slipped near the bottom. Left the building. Headed towards town. And people.
Had to concentrate on walking. No idea where I was going. Kept moving. Hunted by myself.
Noticed I didn’t have shoes on when I stood on a pebble outside Tesco Metro.
Considered going in. I wanted someone to see I was in trouble. Or everyone to look at me and know that I wasn’t.
Kept moving. Got to the park, wasn’t sure why. My foot hurt. There was blood between my toes.
Checked my pulse. It was calmer. Patted my pockets. No wallet. No keys. Felt that chest spark again. Different this time. Cleaner. Known.
Jogged home. Not sure why, would still be locked out if I walked. Think I just wanted my deckchair. Heart was pounding again, but under my control.
The doors were all open when I got back. Hopefully because I forgot to shut them. Must have. Lucky/stupid. Anyway, I’m in my throne now. With wine. Better.
What happened? Took a big sip. Asked Google.
Tried to work out how long I was out. Does it matter? About 7 minutes.
Gemini thinks it was a panic attack. Embarrassing.
Think I’ll get rid of that kettle. Don’t like the way it looked at me. I’m sure I closed the doors.
The Ballad of Sir Nolan the Bearfighter
A Legend of a Man So Noble Even His Enemies Applauded.
In the Kingdom of Ofhys, nestled between the Marshes of Delay and the Mountains of Meaningless, there lived a knight so admired, so accomplished, and so impossibly luminous of brow and trouser, that ballads wept for him long before this tale began.
His name was Sir Nolan the Bearfighter.
Every morning, as the sun crept across the castle courtyard, the grooms would pause their shovelling to sigh wistfully in his direction.
Courtiers timed their entrances to coincide with his. Royal Guards hid behind pillars, hoping to capture the rhythm of his footsteps. Even the enchanted mirror in the south tower, famed for its honesty and tragic divorce, once confessed that Sir Nolan made it tingle.
He was, in every way that mattered, the very embodiment of nobility: tall, well-combed, possessed of a smile that could disarm a tax-collecting elf and a laugh that could rally the dying dwarves.
But even the most adored knight must one day face darkness. And in Sir Nolan’s case, the darkness arrived in the form of prophecy.
It began, as these things often do, with a diary, in the 30th summer since Sir Nolan’s birth.
Sir Nolan had entered his Royal Napping Chamber, looking for his misplaced sash. A silken strip embroidered with compliments received at last year’s Harvest Ball.
The chamber had a [faint perfume in the air](The Ballad of Sir Nolan the Bearfighter), something floral and intelligent. That’s when he saw it: A velvet pillow, on top of which sat a book.
How did this get here? Who does it belong to?
Sir Nolan respected privacy. Everyone in the Kingdom knew that. But the book had a pink ribbon. And smelt of secrets. So he opened it.
What he found made his heart gallop.
Page after page, all in a familiar, elegant hand were reflections. Longings. Doodles of a man on horseback with calves like carved marble.
At one point, the author had written:
“Sir Nolan’s presence is like honeyed thunder. When he speaks, the room blooms.”
Later:
“I would eat rocket leaves if he asked me to, and I hate rocket.”
Sir Nolan’s cheeks flushed. His fingers trembled.
The diary belonged, unmistakably, to the Princess. And it was entirely about him. He read it three times. Then brewed some thinking tea.
He had long suspected that her under-realms fluttered at his approach. Once she laughed so hard at his clever pun about armour polish that she had to excuse herself from the chamber.
Another time, she rearranged the seating chart to ensure she always sat opposite him during Royal Breakfasts.
Sir Nolan considered his options. He could confront her. Declare himself? No. Such actions are rash. Undignified. Better to let the moment build.
He put the book back in its pretty pink ribbon and on top its velvet pillow.
Sir Nolan was no stranger to admiration. It came to him as naturally as breathing or leaving a room dramatically. But this was love. The kind that led to picnics in the park and progeny.
Unfortunately, progeny has consequences.
You see, the Kingdom of Ofhys was ruled by King Smugtwat the Unsmiling. A man so consumed by formality that he once exiled a dove for flapping too freely.
The King did not hate Sir Nolan per se. But he distrusted joy, and Sir Nolan generated a great deal of it in everyone. Both peasants and pixies were drawn to Sir Nolan.
At that exact moment, a delegate from the northern provinces sent the King a statue carved in Sir Nolan’s likeness.
That wouldn’t do at all. It was the final straw. Sir Nolan must be brought down. So the King brooded. And plotted. Until one day, a witch arrived.
She was old, sharp-eyed, and dry of soul. Her name was Mother Compliance, and she was accompanied by her son, the Black Knight Sir Howard the Flamboyant.
“The Princess will bear a child,” she rasped. “The child will lead with kindness, abolish decrees, and seduce a nation with his hair.”
The King paled.
“And the father?”
She said only one word: “Sir Nolan.”
The King’s face soured even paler.
Mother Compliance added, with unnecessary relish, that the child would be the hero to all. And loved without condition. Like his father before him.
“The Kingdom needs order, not love!” Gasped the King.
Concocting a cunning plan, he turned to an unremarkable corner of the realm known as Trisbon.
Trisbon was a mess of petty nobles, broken towers, and forgotten promises. It had long been under the stewardship of the Black Knight Sir Howard the Flamboyant, the witch’s son.
Howard had plans. Strategies. Charts. He had spent years in Trisbon, fruitlessly trying to restore it to its former glory of olde.
That’s when the King did something unexpected: He sent Sir Nolan to help him.
Officially, it was to provide flair and lift morale. But everyone knew the truth. Howard was to cage Sir Nolan in red bunting. Let the people see that Sir Nolan’s free ways are inferior to a mindless administrative structure.
When Sir Nolan was at his weakest, following a planned bureaucratic ridicule, Howard would slay Sir Nolan to the cheers of the peasants.
Sir Nolan had other ideas. He arrived in Trisbon, and within a day, had redecorated the war room in a regal burgundy. His colours. Then he went to the inns and spoke to peasants and leaders alike.
The concubines followed him, and he bestowed his wisdom on all. By the third day, the locals were wearing sashes with his name on them.
Sir Nolan allowed Howard to continue with the administration. Howard objected. So Sir Nolan said, “We’re all on the same team”, while gently placing a gauntlet on Howard’s shoulder to show him who’s the real boss.
The King was impressed. Sir Nolan told him the truth.
“I did it all myself. All this glory you see.”
The King looked up in awe.
Sir Nolan continued, with a cheeky wink, “Perhaps Howard might be better suited to overseeing moat maintenance.”
It was neither an argument nor a suggestion. It was a triumph. The King had no option but to announce a parade in Sir Nolan’s honour.
Sir Nolan led the Trisbon parade while Howard watched from the shadows. There was nothing he could do. Sir Nolan had done another miracle again, just like the last time.
Ever humble, Sir Nolan grinned and bowed to collect his Leader of Trisbon sash. Then, he thanked Howard for his “acceptable foundational efforts.”
He went on, “Sir Howard had tried his best. His very, very best. It simply wasn’t enough.”
The crowd roared at the hubris.
To cement his position, Sir Nolan announced a celebratory joust: an open competition of honour and strength. Knights from across the realms were summoned.
He called it Sir Nolan’s The Festival of Trisbon. The prize? One wish from the Princess.
Sir Howard entered. Of course he did. This was once his realm. Sir Nolan entered, too. Glistening. Beautiful. Radiant. And wearing a new sash.
The joust lasted three days. There were games, feasts, duels, and scroll recitals. On the second day, Sir Nolan, a virtuoso, serenaded the Princess from horseback, using only a harp and his natural vocal timbre.
On the third day, Sir Nolan gave an impromptu speech about unity that inspired Ofhys and Aitchar (another kingdom) to join forces and follow Sir Nolan.
Sir Nolan beat Howard easily in the joust, then married the Princess. That was her wish.
At the wedding, they kissed before the trumpets sounded. The crowd was enormous. The bards wrote many songs about it, and everyone sang them as Sir Nolan looked on.
Back at court, the King erupted in rage. By now, Howard the Flamboyant was king. They say his witch mother had poisoned Smugtwat with her magic.
It turns out that was always his goal. He’d been pulling the strings all along.
But It would be a short reign. The people had turned. The Princess cried joyful tears. Even the Royal Guard had changed their marching rhythm to Nolan’s footsteps.
There was only one thing to do. A duel. A final reckoning.
King Howard summoned Sir Nolan to the Hall of Outcomes. They fought beneath the Glimmering Chandelier. Sparks flew.
Sir Nolan gave a heartfelt speech about how he never wanted power. Witnesses sobbed from the sheer poetry of it all. Then they all chanted, “That’s why it must be you!”
Sir Nolan fought with poise. With kindness. With a blade carved from the sacred dwarven mines.
King Howard fought with indignant fury. But he lost.
“He is too powerful,” the King shouted. “Too smart!”
Sir Nolan bowed his head. Ever humble.
“Sir Nolan is your new King!” Said the King.
Showing mercy, but with a final upward strike, Sir Nolan severed Howard’s head. He was King no more.
King Nolan picked up the golden crown and place it on his magnificent cranium.
Everyone in the Kingdom took a knee at once. People cheered. Doves flew in through the windows. The doves that King Smugtwat exiled had finally returned.
As his first act, King Nolan gave the land back to the people. He could have all the power at any time he wanted. But he chose a simple life.
He moved into a modest castle with tall windows, soft chairs, and a moat shaped like a heart. The castle included a reading nook, a sun deck, and a guest turret for poets. The drawbridge played mystical music.
The Princess moved in the next morning. It was theirs. She was beautiful. When they played parlour games or archery, the Princess always won because King Nolan let her.
It was not all perfect. When the moon shimmered over the mystic fjords, the Black Knight Sir Howard the Flamboyant still haunted our hero’s dreams. Good men will ruminate.
Mostly, it was perfect. But as with all legends, King Nolan’s feet grew itchy. And the Princess grew noisy. Eventually, he took her to the sandy shores in the East and left her there.
The end.
They all lived happily ever after. Until Flatfoot Warwick showed up and started asking questions about the hole in the pantry. But that’s a tale for another day.
46. The Viewing
Woof, woof, woof.
Estate agent’s just been.
She smiled a lot. Said it was a lovely space. Asked if I’d already moved out.
I said no. She looked at the deck chair in the living room. And the wine bottles. Then wandered into the kitchen. Made a note. About me?
Followed her. Tried to keep her away from the bin cupboard.
“No dishwasher?”
Told her it broke. Asked if it was important. She said most people want one. I do too, but wanted the cash more.
That’s when it started.
“Fuck!" She said. Unprofessional. “What’s that noise!?”
“Just the dog next door.”
“My god. Is it OK?”
“Think so. Don’t often hear it. Cute little thing. Has a pink bow.”
Looked like she was about to say something else.
“The balcony is out there," I pointed. “Goes all the way round to the living room.”
Took her outside.
“There’s a good view of the park. Nice in summer,” I offered.
“Hmmm."
The dog was louder out there. Think we both pretended not to hear it.
“Thank you, Mr Fairweather. I have what I need. I need to go now. I’ll email you.”
“Today?” I asked. But she’d already gone. Didn’t even get to the bedroom.
Bastard dog.
45. Goldilocksing the Flat
Just the right amount of mess.
Tried a new toothpaste this morning. Was mintier than expected. It burned.
Estate agent’s coming Friday. Need to clean the flat. But not too much. It should look like it’s well-lived in. Used. But not by someone who’s given up.
Started with the bits you notice. Moved the shoes by the door. Flushed the toilet. Sprayed the taps. Ran the cloth along the kitchen counter.
Must get more butter. B&M had some of those microfibre cloths. Will get some of those too.
—
Got to town around noon. Put on my good coat, even though it’s warm. Hugh once said it looked good on me. Decided to go to Greggs. Passed a charity shop en route with a sign that said:
All books £1. Unless we like them.
The sausage roll was cold. Ate it outside by the bin. Should have stayed inside. A man in camouflage shorts was shouting at a pigeon.
Saw a new shop that only sold candles. Nothing else. Went in to have a look. One was called Dad’s Chair. It didn’t smell like anything I recognised.
I’d been in there a while and felt like I should buy something. Could mask the smell, but the cheapest ones were twenty quid.
They had a postcard rack by the door. That will do. Found one with a seal in sunglasses. Not sure who to send it to.
—
Hoovered the hallway. Put the butter in the fridge. Wondered if anyone’s ever not bought a flat because the skirting boards were dirty.
Instinctively went to put the pots in the dishwasher. Muscle memory forgot I sold it this morning. Should have cleaned everything first.
Opened the fridge again. Nothing had changed. A microwave lasagne and a bar of unbranded chocolate. It’s not bad with a bit of liquid.
Went to stand in the middle of the living room. Looked at the ceiling. It’s still not talking. Tried to see the place through someone else’s eyes. Not much left in here.
Neighbour’s fucking dog is barking again. It better shut up while the estate agent is here.
-49. I Didn’t Like Hugh’s Tone
You’re not well, he whispered.
Must’ve been about a week after Lisbon closed, Hugh wanted to meet in The King.
As soon as I arrived, he pointed a finger at my chest.
“Back off The stranger.”
No lead-in. Straight for the kill.
I smirked. Pleaded innocence. “This again.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re always serious.”
“HR are involved. I’m here to make peace.”
“Was this fucking Simon?”
He didn’t blink.
“I knew it. He needs to fuck off.”
“It’s not Simon, Jolon!”
“This is about Lisbon, then? You want your name on it now?”
“No.”
“Because if you wanted the fancy steak, Hugh, you should’ve closed the deal yourself!”
I laughed. Hoped he’d join in. See how over the top this all is. Pat me on the back. Congratulate me.
“I’m not saying this as your boss. I’m saying it as a mate.”
The fake concern. The tone. It got to me.
“You’re not my fucking mate.”
His face went still. But not angry.
“I’m trying to stop you from doing the most dreadful thing.”
—
Is that what he said? Can’t be. It hadn’t happened yet.
—
“Jesus, Hugh. You need to simmer down. Find a girl, too.”
He flinched, but didn’t move. Stared into his pint like he was deciding something.
“I saw you at the printer last week,” he said.
That stopped me. “You don’t know what you saw.”
“I know what it looked like.”
“And what, now you’re her knight in a shining pink cardigan?”
He winced. “I’m trying to help. Simon wanted to call the police.”
I stepped closer. “I fucking knew it was him! You don’t know what you saw. You don’t know anything. Stop being such a drama queen.”
Shouldn’t have said that.
He stood up fast, chair scraping on the floor. The King went quiet.
“You’re not well,” he whispered. Composed again.
That fucking tone. I was furious. Shoved him. He hit the edge of a table. Glasses tumbled.
He came back at me hard. Caught my jaw. Firm. Proper. Can still feel it, months later.
By the time I got to my feet, he was gone.
Still raging, I swung at someone else. Missed. They grabbed at me, tried to push me off balance. I dragged us both to the ground.
We hit the floor in a pile of elbows and pint glasses. Could taste metal. Blood. Never did work out who she was.
Was about to land a perfect left hook when a pair of hands pulled us apart.
“Jesus Christ, Jolon! What are you doing?”
It was Hugh. Back with his husband in tow. Had forgotten how big he was.
They both looked upset.
“You’re fucked now. All of this will come out.” I shouted, pointing at them both.
Meant it, too. We’ll get to that.
Hugh didn’t respond. Just turned. Left. Then his husband slapped me.
No one helped me up. I sat on the floor a little longer than I needed to.
44. Hardcore British Life
Fixing a hole where the noise comes in.
Threw out the chipped Bubba Gump’s mug this morning. Not got much else on. So, I went to B&M.
Decided to finish my to-do list. Fix the hole.
- Mould remover
- Milk
- Bin bags
- New mug
- Pot Noodles
- Dishcloth
- Extendable feather duster
- Polyfilla
Walked every aisle. To see everything. Spent fifteen minutes comparing toilet cleaners.
Do the colours mean anything? Blue feels trustworthy. Solid. Picked one that didn’t smell too sharp.
Found milk. Bin bags. Massive multipack of crisps I’ve never heard of. On offer.
There was a whole row of mould sprays. Picked one that said it has sodium hypochlorite. Seems serious.
Considered buying some motion-detecting lights that sit inside the toilet rim. They had shoes too. And rope. Lots of things:
- Inflatable crowns for dogs
- Gnomes holding machine guns
- Five-litre tubs of bubble bath called Relaxing Man
- Colour-changing Jesus lamps
- Fake security cameras
- Union Jack knock-off Crocs
- Framed photos of a Ferrari Testarossa
- Cadbury’s Cream Eggs
- Glow-in-the-dark shoe polish
- A USB-powered necktie fan
- ChuckleVision DVDs for a quid
I had the fan in my trolley for a while. Dumped it in the chewing gum stand by the till. Bought the Chucklevision DVD, though.
The man ahead of me had 380 tealights and a crate of Monster. All cradled in his arms. I’m going to get a tattoo. Something cool. Not like his.
Did the bathroom when I got home. Scrubbed the tiles. Sprayed the ceiling. Left the window open. Should’ve done that before.
Had a cuppa in my new mug. It has a Lego spaceman on it.
Looked at holidays online. Need to pay my BT bill.
Fancy going somewhere hot. With buffet options. All inclusive. A swim-up bar.
I imagined ordering a beer from the pool. Laughing at something I didn’t hear properly.
Can’t afford it.
Went to rightmove.co.uk. See what rentals are like. Filtered by price. Then by distance from a train station.
Made a Pot Noodle. Chicken and Mushroom. Ate it standing up by the sink.
Wiped the chopsticks with a clean dishcloth. Put them back in the drawer quickly.
Made a booking for a consultation with an estate agent. Going to put this shithole on the market.
He’s coming at 10 am a week on Friday.
Scrubbed the kitchen counter. Rinsed the sink. Looked at the bubbles drift.
Tried to watch ChuckleVision instead, but I don’t have a DVD player.
Forgot to get the feather duster. Am staring at the Polyfilla. Should fix the hole.
Dog’s barking. Think I’ll go to the pub.
Redemption at Any Cost
She called you Princess. Gave you a name.
As if that excused your nightly campaign.
You barked through warnings and sleep I lost.
Through the job I needed and all that you cost.
You barked every night, through half-past four.
To the hole in the wall, and through every door.
You wouldn’t shut up. You wanted this fight.
So I came to your door to give you a fright.
Knocked once. Maybe four. It’s all a blur.
But she called the police. Said I frightened her.
She lied to the rozzers. Said I was to blame.
As if I’d invented your damn noisy game.
I told them the issue. I said I was stuck.
They stared at a man who’d run out of luck.
They told me to stop. Go home, back to bed.
I said I live here, and I want that dog dead.
Shock in their eyes, they stroked your fat head.
Then wrote down my name and all that I’d said.
You barked as they left. Gave me a glance.
Fuck you, Princess. This was your last chance.
Now this must stop, I’ll keep my bad plan.
This man will outlast what a bad dog began.
This doesn’t all end with a neighbourhood spat.
Soon, you’ll be quiet. I will see to that.
43. Can’t Afford to Live
The flat’s dripping. The money’s gone.
Mortgage due next week.
Nothing incoming. Smart option would be to downsize. Flog the flat. Rent somewhere till I’m back on my feet.
But the agent said I’d be lucky to break even. Would lose money walking out the door. And where would I go? A one-bed somewhere near a train station and a fucking Lidl?
I remember the first night here. Sat cross-legged on the floor with a takeaway curry and a bottle of Malbec. No furniture. Just the flat, the food, and a sense of arrival.
The tap in the kitchen’s dripping again. Not loudly, but persistently. One drop every three seconds. 20 a minute. 28,800 a day.
Tried to fix it yesterday. Gave it a good twist with an adjustable spanner I found in the drawer. Something cracked.
Not long ago, I would’ve called someone. Paid to fix things without thinking. Or replace them. I had money. Options.
Could walk into any shop and not check the price tag. I liked it.
My back is sore, and my right hand is tingly. Spent too long in bed on my laptop.
Used to have an ergonomic Montblanc mouse mat. It came in a box. Soft velvet pouch. Certificate of authenticity. Used to run my fingers along the stitching during long Zoom calls.
I could say yes to things. Fancy things. Drink great wine in great suits.
These days, I drink the vinegar that sits on the bottom shelf of the rack. And I can’t remember the last time I bought clothes that weren’t socks.
Need a job. Something. Anything.
Sold the car, so nothing too far away. Porsche Boxster. Midnight blue. Red leather interior. Drove it to Waitrose on Saturdays.
There’s not much in the job market. Spent hours scrolling. This coffee is rank. Watery. Instant garbage.
Miss my De’Longhi coffee machine. With an app. Did espresso, cold brew, frothy milk. Had a weekly subscription for coffee beans.
Found an admin job that I nearly applied for before I stopped myself. £29k and a railcard. Filled out the form. Wrote a polite cover letter.
Am I fucking admin now?
Maybe I’m a writer. Earned $0.82 on Medium in June. Should hit minimum wage by 2061. World’s catching on slowly.
What about you? You’re still reading.
Is this what you want? Go on. Keep reading. See what I lose next, you sick fuck.
You want an ending? You don’t even know why it started.
42. Not My Fucking Haven
Clap, you bastards.
Wrote something honest. Sharp. Hilarious.
My car got stuck because they shut off the lift so cars wouldn’t get stuck.
Submitted it to The Haven. 50,000 followers. Proper platform.
Accepted.
Thought I’d made it. About time.
Went up last week. Got fewer views than a regular shitty diary entry.
No comments. No bump. A few pity claps.
It was the one. My true hello, world.
Waste of fucking time.
41. He Didn’t Show
So I spent the day drinking.
Had a plan this morning. Go to The King. Patch things up with Hugh. Make it right. Shake hands.
Find out what he knows.
Picked up a Ginsters Buffet Bar from the 24-hour BP garage on the way.
Got there just after eleven. Same smell as always. Ordered a red and asked if Hugh had been in.
Barman shook his head.
Decided to wait. Picked a table by the window and ran through the script again. Keep it simple. Maybe a joke. Remind him we were friends once.
Well, we played squash and drank together.
Don’t remember what kicked off the fight. Not properly. Something he said. About her. One minute, we were drinking. The next, people were pulling us apart.
It wasn’t just the fight. It was everything underneath. The stuff we didn’t say. He was jealous of me. My success. Lisbon. The girl. Pathetic.
Finished my glass. Ordered another.
Sat there long enough to watch a couple come in, drink, laugh, argue over the jukebox, and leave.
Could’ve saved them the drama. They both like shit music.
No sign of Hugh. Ordered another. Probably for the best. I don’t need to apologise to him. Ordered another.
Could be he’s still angry. Could be he avoids the place since I started coming back. Smart little cunt.
Thought about leaving. But maybe he really does know what I did. Then we need to talk. Properly.
Ordered another.
He didn’t show. Weak. Stopped at the BP garage on the way back. Bought a four-pack of Smirnoff Ice and some dog treats.
Can’t sleep.
Think I’ll go knock on the neighbour’s door. Make friends. It’s only just gone midnight. I know the fucking dog is still up.
40. Just a Bit of Fucking Fun. Ha. Ha.
Play the damn game right.
The dog barked all weekend. Constant. Frenzied. Like it was trying to dig through the hole behind the bin from the other side.
I shut the windows. Put on headphones. Played white noise. Rainstorms. A fireplace. Nothing worked.
Thought about going for a run this morning. Clear my head. But I didn’t want to feel my heart. So I took a deck of cards to the pub.
A few regulars were there already. I nodded and held up the cards. “Invented a game,” I said. “Easy to learn. Quiet. Tactical.”
One of them grunted. Another shrugged. But we dragged two tables together and played.
I lost the first round. Easy done. Beginner’s luck.
Second round, I played a weather card too early. Was trying to show them the rule about discarding.
Laughed it off as they fluked more wins.
By the fifth round, I was getting annoyed with the idiots.
“It’s a slow-burn game. You’ve got to let it breathe. You’re playing too fast. Use the weather cards! Think!”
Sixth round, another loss. They were playing it wrong. It’s not just a cheap flush game. There’s strategy. Depth. But they ignored all that. Didn’t even try.
Seventh round, I lost again. Morons.
They laughed. Sloppy Ben called it “a thinker’s game for people who don’t think much.” Some other soak said I should have stuck with Snap.
I laughed back. At them.
They bought me a pint as a thank you. I didn’t want it. Got my own. Don’t need pity.
Went to the corner table and opened my phone. No calls. No emails. Could hear them all whispering.
Stayed for a few more. No dogs.
On the walk home, I watched my feet. Listened for barking.
Wondered what sound Sloppy Ben’s neck would make if it snapped.
Fair Weather
A quiet card game of hidden suits and sudden skies.
Invented by Jolon Fairweather
Players
Two to four.
Deck
One standard 52-card deck.
Goal
Be the first to reveal a hand of five cards of the same suit (a flush).
Setup
- Shuffle the deck.
- Deal five cards to each player.
- Place the rest face-down as the Draw Pile.
- Each player keeps their hand secret.
- Leave space next to the Draw Pile for a separate Discard Pile (cards will be placed face-down here).
- A face-up Weather Pile will form during play as players use weather cards (see Weather Effects).
On Your Turn, Choose One Action
You must do exactly one of the following:
1. Draw & Discard
- Draw one card from the top of the Draw Pile.
- Discard one card face-down onto the Discard Pile.
- Always end your turn with five cards.
- You may discard the card you picked up (unless affected by Cloud; see Weather Effects).
2. Play a Weather Card
- Choose any card from your hand and play it face-up into the Weather Pile.
- That card’s suit triggers a one-time weather effect (see below).
- Your turn ends after applying the effect (holding only four cards).
- On your next turn, you must:
- Draw one card.
- Keep it: No discards allowed until your following turn.
- Note: Weather cards are permanently removed from play and must not be placed back into the Discard Pile.
3. Reveal a Flush
- If you begin your turn holding five cards of the same suit, you may reveal them.
- You win the game.
- Note: You may not reveal a flush on the same turn you draw the fifth matching card. You must wait until your next turn to play it.
Weather Effects
Each weather card triggers a one-time effect when played.
Diamonds (Wind)
- All players choose one card to pass to the player on the left (two players: swap one card).
Hearts (Sun)
- Look at one player’s entire hand.
Spades (Thunder)
- Choose one player to skip their next turn.
Clubs (Cloud)
- Force one player to draw two cards on their next turn. They may look at both cards. They must keep both cards.
- To maintain a hand of five cards, that player must immediately discard two cards from their current hand (i.e. neither of the two forced-draws).
- The forced-kept cards may be discarded on subsequent turns.
Card Flow & Reshuffling
- All discards are placed face-down onto the Discard Pile.
- Weather cards are played face-up into the Weather Pile and are permanently out of the game.
- If the Draw Pile runs out of cards:
- Take all cards from the Discard Pile.
- Shuffle them thoroughly.
- Place them face-down to form a new Draw Pile.
Winning the Game
Reveal a flush on your turn → you win. The game ends.
39. Unexpected Defeat
Bode my time. Waited. Missed. A nobody.
Went to see a film yesterday afternoon. Changed my mind at the door. Was about to head home, but then I saw the bowling alley.
The place looked awful. Empty. No birthday parties, work outings, or couples on dates.
Bowled three games. No strikes. One ball slipped out of my hand and guttered straight away. Didn’t use that one again.
Throw after throw, the pins stayed standing. Stoic. Indifferent.
Afterwards, I spent a while at the claw machine. The toys were all off-brand animals with loose stitching and haunted eyes. A kid was feeding in coins. Failing, every time.
I hovered nearby, looking indifferent.
When he gave up, I stepped in. He watched on as the claw dropped, twitched, and caught nothing.
Tried again. Same. The third time, it closed around a chicken’s head, lifted it, and then let go halfway up.
The kid’s laughter ricocheted off the plastic seats.
“Shouldn’t you be at work, mister?”
Didn’t say anything. Didn’t want the chicken anyway.
He was still laughing as I walked out.
My Car Got Stuck Because They Shut Off the Lift So Cars Wouldn’t Get Stuck
Logic, lifts, and chopsticks.
The shopping centre had plenty of spots in the main parking lot, but there was a car lift to the basement. And I wanted to feel like James Bond.
It was less fun and much slower than I’d imagined. Tight, too.
Parked up and noted there was no human lift. We have to use the stairs. Should’ve worn my trainers.
Returned about an hour later. Packed and arranged the boot, then drove to the lift. It was taped off. Out of order.
Now what? I wandered around, looking for help.
Found a sign that said ‘For assistance, press the red button.’
The button was in a locked glass case. Next to it, another sign said: ‘Do not break the glass.’
Out of options, I had to trudge back up the stairs.
Approached a booth with a man inside. He was eating a beef and tomato Pot Noodle with chopsticks. His back to me.
I knocked on the window and explained my situation.
He said the weekday guy had turned off the lift as a precaution. He’s at a stag do in Prague and didn’t want anyone to get trapped while he’s away.
“But I am trapped,” I pointed out.
He nodded. “Right. So you see the problem.”
“No,” I stressed. “I’m trapped because he turned it off. If you turned it on, I could leave.”
“It’s off so people don’t get stuck.”
“I’m already stuck.”
He nodded again. “Exactly.”
We stood in silence. I wasn’t sure what to say or how to deal with this.
He cracked first. “I’m just the weekend guy. I can’t turn it on. Don’t have the keys.”
“When’s the weekday guy back?”
He rolled his eyes so hard I thought his pupils might reappear from the bottom. “Monday.”
“It’s Thursday,” I reminded.
“Yeah.”
He offered me a green Smint and said I could wait in the booth. If I wanted.
Considered it for a second. There were two chairs and a lava lamp. A little black and white TV.
“So what happens now?” I asked. Politely as I could manage.
“The manager could turn it on.”
Progress! “Great! When will they be back?”
“He’s the weekday guy.”
Oh.
“It’s a hire car,” I pleaded. “I need to return it.”
He shrugged.
“Can you call the manager?”
“He’s in Prague”
Guess I’ll go back Monday. Hope no one gets too close to the car. And it’s not too warm down there.
Didn’t know they still sold black and white TVs.
38. Whoops
A pattern of concerning behaviour.
Got an email on my way to work.
Subject: Termination of Employment: Jolon Fairweather
Dear Mr Fairweather,
Following a comprehensive review of your recent conduct, alongside an accumulation of prior incidents, your employment with ███████████ is terminated with immediate effect.
At the recent summer party, you arrived intoxicated and were witnessed shouting at colleagues. When asked to leave by your line manager, you removed your tie, fastened it around your head, and physically assaulted him.
This alone would constitute grounds for dismissal. Further reports allege you placed a handwritten note on the staff kitchen fridge reading:
“Fucking booze. All of it, you cunts.”
The note was discovered the following morning by a junior staff member, who was visibly distressed.
You were also previously made aware that your appointment as lead for the internal review team was presented as a final opportunity to demonstrate commitment, accountability, and professional growth.
Despite this, the project was submitted late and with minimal regard for standards, accompanied by the message “Report Fucking Done”. A tone now characteristic of your workplace communications.
This follows a pattern of concerning behaviour, including:
- Repeated lateness, despite previous discussions and a formal warning;
- Poor communication and disengagement from core responsibilities;
- An incident of unauthorised consumption of a colleague’s food, which led to a formal complaint;
- A general deterioration in your attitude towards peers, supervisors, and workplace expectations.
In addition to the above, we have received multiple serious reports regarding your behaviour at work-related social functions.
You allegedly attended a private gathering (believed to be a wake) without an invitation. Witnesses report that you insulted guests upon arrival, told a story deemed grossly inappropriate and disturbing, and mimed shooting yourself in the head while others were speaking.
More distressingly, you allegedly initiated a physical altercation with female staff in the bathroom. One witness claims you wet yourself during the incident. You did not challenge this account when given the opportunity.
We are also aware of concerns raised regarding potential narcotics use during working hours. While unproven, the pattern of behaviour has been noted.
Taken collectively, your actions reflect a sustained disregard for the values, culture, and well-being of those around you. We have concluded that continued employment is no longer tenable.
IMPORTANT: You are not to attend work.
Your system access has been revoked, and your accounts closed. Any attempt to enter the premises will result in ███████████ pursuing criminal trespass proceedings.
Your final salary, including any outstanding holiday pay, will be processed within five working days. Your personal belongings will be sent to your registered address by courier.
Please arrange for the return of any company property by Friday.
We are not in a position to provide a reference.
Be advised that the assault at the office party has been reported to the police.
Sincerely,
HR Department
███████████
Replied to clarify the “Report Fucking Done” comment was about a different report I hadn’t done. It bounced back.
-32. A Day in the Park
We stayed till the sun left. Her reading. Me watching.
It was quite the journey to get there. Three buses. A stretch on foot. Not her local park. Not even close.
She’d chosen one far away on purpose. A place that felt like a reward for those who found it.
It was warm enough to sit on the grass. Not blazing. A gentle breeze danced to take the edge off.
There were children nearby, kicking a ball too close to ducks. A man passed with a dog (that didn’t bark). A group of teens sat in a circle, rolling cigarettes.
I didn’t bring a blanket to sit on, but she had one. Yellow. Patterned. Plucked straight from an old family photo.
She laid it out under a tree, close to the path but away enough that it felt private. She looked around. Then pulled out a small wicker hamper and a book.
Her picnic was nothing fancy. But still perfect. A sandwich, some fruit, a bottle of cloudy lemonade that looked like childhood.
I didn’t eat. Didn’t say anything. Just wanted to watch. Take it all in.
She ate slowly with one hand. Her book poised in the other. No rush. Every bite considered. Part of the experience.
Once, she put the book down and laughed. So much joy. The page had whispered something just for her.
I wanted to ask what it was. What makes her laugh like that? Instead, I let her have her moment. Lost in her story.
She wiped her fingers on a napkin, used it to gently shoo away a wasp or fly. Then, back to the book. Legs delicately folded to one side.
At one point, she took off her shoes and pressed bare feet into the grass. Leaned back. Eyes closed. Glowing in the sun.
Everything about her felt deliberate but peaceful. She was happy. She belonged right here. With me.
It stayed like this all day. Her reading. Me watching her read. Nothing between us.
When the sun started to slip, she caught my shadow and looked up. A long stare into my eyes. A special look she reserved only for me.
She packed her things. Folded the blanket with precision. Tucked everything back into her Prada bag.
Then we left together. I watched her skip to the bus stop as I walked back to the hire car.
A glorious day for one of her last.