Melissa Kite

If a guest had said ‘this is a rat-infested hovel’, frankly I would have taken it on the chin. As I wrote here two weeks ago about the coterie of rats which have taken up home for the winter at Kitey Towers, I could hardly have argued if a customer had taken issue with one of them running across her bed in the night. But that didn’t happen. We got away with it. Just like we got away with the BB making German jokes all season only just out of earshot of German customers. In a way, what am I complaining about, now we’ve been done in by a customer with a grudge? Given the odds, we’ve had a good run. In the end, no one saw a rat, or heard a German joke, or fell over in the shower that the BB still hasn’t fitted with a screen and which floods the en suite.

Roux the cat stared at the rat, decided it was a bad do and retreated. The rat was screaming so loudly the cat slunk away, while trying to style it out. A podgy black and white, Roux strolled casually with his head in the air as though saying: ‘I was just passing. Rat? No, I never saw a rat. If I had, I would have done something, obviously.’ The rat was backed into the corner next to a sideboard against the hallway wall. ‘You deserve a second chance,’ I told it, and got a long dustpan and brush. ‘Come on, come out.’ The rat squeaked desperately as if telling me I had to be kidding. Had I seen the size of that cat? ‘Don’t worry about Billy Bunter. He’s useless. Get in the dustpan.

The carer on my mother’s doorstep took one look at me and addressed me in a slow, patronising bellow. ‘Hello Mrs Kite!’ she yelled, as I answered the door. ‘And how are you feeling today?’ I informed this uniquely annoying woman – for all carers are annoying in their own distinct ways – that I was, in fact, the patient’s daughter. She apologised but the universe had made its point. My hair was standing on end, I was still in my pyjamas at 9.30 a.m., I had chest pains. In the dead of night, I had been woken by my mother standing over me with a pair of kitchen scissors. In the dead of night, I had been woken by my mother standing over me with a pair of kitchen scissors A few days earlier, she had fallen in her living room and broken her wrist.

The hysterical passengers at Larnaca airport were screaming and crying uncontrollably. ‘There’s a Wizz Air flight to Luton tomorrow!’ shouted one girl next to me, looking fit to pop out of her pink skin. ‘What?’ I said, appalled. I don’t know much, but I do know I never want to get a Wizz Air flight to Luton, unless in a full-blown wartime evacuation, and this wasn’t that. When I tried to scan my boarding pass and it said ‘Flight cancelled’, I just thought ‘Good.’ As the hordes of panicking chavs bombarded the easyJet counter, I turned on my heels and began pulling my wheelie case back towards the exit. I’m a big fan of budget airlines and hotels. Luxury frightens me and too much choice gives me panic attacks. But there are limits.

Lying by the rooftop pool of the Hotel Sun in downtown Lefkosa, I felt like a cowboy about to stir from slumber beneath his hat to cause a scene. I had turned into someone in an Elmore Leonard story. My view was a mountain range in full panorama with one hill entirely painted in the red and white flag of the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus. The poolside music was country and western. Several times a day it mingled with the call to prayer coming from the minarets along the main drag. In this frontier society where West meets East, I felt like anything was possible. I lay by the pool, watching the scene from under my baseball cap, listening to ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’ and ‘Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue’, the first song I loved as a child.

The Germans stampeded into the house, overwhelming me with the element of surprise. ‘Incoming!’ I shouted through the main staircase window into the farmyard to alert the builder boyfriend, who was haying the horses. A car was unloading two couples – double the amount of guests I was expecting. They came at me all at once and piled up the stairs, and I ran behind protesting that there were too many of them. ‘It is no problem! They sleep with us!’ said the woman who had booked, as she and her very tall husband and their two friends crowded into Room 4. An en suite double, Room 4 is very comfortable and rated five stars, but I doubt you could fit two extra Germans in there. Two extra Chinese maybe. The BB came running and looked fit to burst.

Halfway through watching the hit Netflix series The Tinder Swindler, I realised I was cheering on the swindler Simon Leviev, who won me over with his ingenuity. I had the same reaction to Jason Arday. ‘Go on my son!’ I heard myself exclaiming as I waded through the outraged coverage of the former Cambridge professor’s extraordinary exploits. Whether or not he even knows it, Jason Arday played the rotten, elitist, box-ticking, minority and sick note obsessed education regime brilliantly When it got to the bit about him running nine marathons with a broken leg it occurred to me that anyone who did not appreciate this saga for its daring and scope was just plain anti-enterprise.

The French socialist must have burst her bladder getting a litre of percolator coffee down her to stop the Dutch couple getting any, but she managed it. She was more than a socialist, actually. I think she was one of those continental communists. ‘Why can’t we all just ’ave what we need an’ live in peace, uh?’ she asked me at one point, with the obvious answer, ‘Because you hate everyone and pilfer everything,’ but I couldn’t say that and I didn’t want an argument with her because she was pretty feisty. Pretending to be Irish for two weeks was wearing me out but I kept it up because I feared she would boil over if she found out I was Crème anglaise.

If you want to know what the ninth circle of Hell is like, join a dating site. I didn’t want to join a dating site, for I am happily ensconced, but I joined one in the interests of research because something very dark is going on in the world of dating apps, and it has something to do with two bugbears of mine: safeguarding and AI. If you could mate two monsters of modern life to produce a deranged creature capable of devouring human rights, then those two monsters would be safeguarding and AI. Recently, I began to notice a deluge of complaints on online forums from people protesting their innocence after being banned from dating apps for no apparent reason.

The couple who were on a climate crisis camping trip in Ballydehob messaged me in a desperate state. ‘We’re cold and wet! Please can we come?’ It was after 7 p.m. and she had asked for a two-night stay, specifying she would be bringing a dog. We do allow dogs, but we make clear that we can only take small ones because we have to maintain some sort of non-dog smell to the rooms. Added to which, people who take their dogs with them everywhere are the worst. They think they are interesting but they are, in fact, colossally boring. I have never met one dog-traveller who is anything other than a pain in the proverbial. We once took our little spaniel Cydney to France and once was enough.

‘We need to get into bed and watch a really good Poirot,’ I said, for I had given him such a hard time I doubted anything else would fix it. The builder boyfriend had cut down a tree I liked while he was working in the garden. This tree was no more than a fast-growing something or other and I’m not really a tree hugger. But I do get attached to certain sprouting things, for not always obvious reasons. We have a vast old twisted trunk in the round garden where the picnic tables are set up, for example, which I love so much, despite it looking half dead, that I have put my own personal Tree Protection Order on it. It is two trunks, in fact, departing from a round base and twisting off in different directions, so you can sit inside it.

‘I’m Native American,’ said one half of the honeymooning couple from Plattsburgh, holding out a small gift as they left. Very sweetly, she had come to present me with a token of her appreciation. It was two maple candies and a small sticker upon which was a sort of flag. This, she explained, was the emblem of her tribe in Quebec. I made all the right noises as the four of us stood in the farmyard where they had come to look for us. Beside the girl, not saying very much, was her new husband, a rosy-cheeked, wholesome-looking boy with a buzz cut. He nodded along as she explained her origins. The builder boyfriend stood beside me in the sunny farmyard, and I took a deep breath and hoped he could cope.

‘There’s a flat rat under the mat!’ I shrieked, and wondered whether that was the sort of jaunty phrase that could be used for elocution lessons. I had lifted this mat by the main staircase to hoover the floor beneath it and there it was, a perfectly flat rat in the shape of a cartoon dead rat beneath this mat. I began laughing uncontrollably, because if you’ve ever seen a flat rat under a mat you will know that it is intrinsically funny, whatever your views on rats. You will laugh even if you don’t like rodents, of indeed if you like them way too much. Even if you are a member of the Rat Preservation Society, when you see one flattened paper thin, stuck to your floorboards, I challenge you not to burst out laughing, while jumping up and down.

‘Can I go now?’ said the farmer I was talking to over my gate, and he looked so scared I felt a bit ashamed of myself. I had flagged him down as he went by in his rickety blue tractor that’s so old it looks like Noah used it to load hay onto the Ark. I told him I hadn’t seen him for a while. He usually waves or comes in for a chat. He has been our favourite neighbour since we moved to West Cork. As he owns the land above us where our water well is situated, that’s all to the good. We went out of our way to befriend him from the get-go, but after deluging him in home-baked fruitcakes and offers of dinner, for he lives alone, we realised he was our sort of person anyway.