The Diary of Jolon Fairweather

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Dumb HR logic.

Woke up face-down on the duvet, fully clothed, one shoe off. Mouth like wet lint. No memory of getting home.

My face looked blotchy. Eyes red. Tender.

Tried to piece things together in the shower. Couldn’t stay upright. Sat on the tiles until the water went cold. Closed my eyes, but it made me more frightened.

Had to get a taxi to work. There was an email from HR waiting.

Subject: Inappropriate Language

A young secretary found a note in the kitchen this morning. Stuck to the fridge. It made her cry.

“We’d like to remind all staff that abusive messages—even those intended as jokes—have no place in the workplace."

They put a picture of it in the email. Now everyone gets the chance to cry.

It’s definitely my handwriting. Remember writing it. Sort of. I stand by it.

Wasn’t me that triple-underlined it, though.

Decided not to reply. Needed coffee.

Saw the boss’s empty office on the way to the pantry. Lightweight. If you want to be a man in the evening, you’ve got to be a man in the morning.

He’s not the only one AWOL. Cowards. The few who made it are on mute.

A guy toasting an onion bagel gave me a little salute.

When I got back to my desk, someone had left a Polaroid from the party on my keyboard.

A woman in the foreground smiling into the lens. Pretty. Wonder why I’ve not noticed her before. In the background, slightly out of focus, you can see me and the boss. My fists raised.

No wonder he’s hiding today.

Finished my coffee in one go and immediately needed to lie down. Sat in the stairwell for a while.

My phone pinged. Another email from HR. And a Slack message. Now they’re calling.

Looks like more trouble. Can feel my heart pounding in my teeth.

Am going home. Without my phone. Lie low. Will deal with this on Monday.

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Thank you for your interest.

Subject: Application to █████████████

Dear Mr Fairweather,

Thank you for your interest in the ████████████ position.

We have decided not to take your application further.

We appreciate the time you gave to the process and wish you well in your future job search.

Regards,

Recruitment Team

███████████

This is an automated message. Do not reply.

Fucking idiots.

Biggest mistake they’ll make this year..

Fuck it.

Going to the pub.

Will have some fun at the office party tonight.

Fuck.

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Can feel them thinking about me.

Still nothing from the interview.

Must be good news. Rejections are fast.

Have been working on an article for a comedy publication. Keep my mind off it.

They’re probably still discussing me. Forwarding interview notes. Comparing impressions.

“Is he too confident? Too good?”

Laptop guy will be worried. Threatened by how I handled the room. Thinks I’d gun for his job.

She’ll be defending me. Quietly. Persuasively.

“He’s got edge. But he listens. That’s rare.”

Smiled when she said it.

Oxford Man won’t like that. He’ll pretend not to care. He’ll try to be objective.

“Very smart. Just not sure he’s the right fit for this team.”

She’ll lean back. Let the silence stretch. She’s good at that. Knows how to get what she wants.

“He’s exactly what we need.”

Yes. Delay is good. They’re weighing it. Imagining me in the office. In their lives.

Maybe they’ll read the article I’m doing. She’ll like it.

“He’s funny too.”

Any minute now. I’m ready.

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