Melissa Kite

After refusing to issue my HRT without a blood pressure test, the GP surgery rang to offer me an appointment. ‘I can come any time,’ I said, trying to be accommodating. Having complained about this particular practice before, I felt guilty. They have been very good at issuing me with repeat prescriptions through their online service during lockdown. When a polite, cheerful receptionist said I could not have my HRT without an appointment this time, because my annual blood pressure test was due, I saw that as a good thing, a sign they were doing their job properly. I made a mental note to write about how nice and efficient they were being in this case. Then the receptionist said: ‘I can offer you a telephone appointment next Wednesday.

Watching a woman driving a dog past my house like a carthorse is just another ‘new normal’ of lockdown. This moron had two long ropes attached to a harness around the body of her huge dog and was trying to steer it along the village green by long-reining it from behind as though it were a pony. The poor dog looked utterly fed up. I don’t know, because I couldn’t face asking her, but I got the impression that like the rest of the idiot new dog owners out there, she thought this system was less cruel than putting a conventional collar around its neck attached to a conventional lead. That, you see, would involve pulling on the dog. And the new owners won’t do that.

The rope riders came down the driveway slowly, their horses veering this way and that, side to side, forwards a few steps, then backwards nearly as many. It took them an hour to trespass from the bridleway that crosses the top of the drive and make their slow, dangerously shaky course between the paddocks full of horses until they made it to just opposite our smallholding, where their mounts gave up completely and just refused to take another step. There were four horses, but only one was wearing what I would call tack, as in a saddle and bridle. The other three, including a child’s pony being ridden by a small girl, were being steered by only makeshift ropes wound loosely around the horses’ heads.

‘Welcome to Victims First. Please leave your name and number and we will return your call. Beeeeeeeeeeeep!’ I had rung the number given to me by the police to pay my fixed penalty fine for not having an MOT. This £100 I was trying to pay was coming out of an increasingly tight household budget, incidentally, so I decided that the fairest thing to do was to claw it back from the state. I had, of course, deeply apologised to the officer who pulled me over for forgetting the MOT after the Covid extension period ran out. And I begged him to let me drive straight home, park off road, and take the Volvo to be tested the very next morning. But he insisted I had to be fined.

‘Have you had your jab, Margery?’ said one Surrey lady to another in the queue for take-away coffee at the chintzy, shabby chic coffee shop. ‘Oh yes, I’ve had it for my country,’ said her friend. ‘I just can’t understand these people who won’t have the jab. I mean, how selfish…’ I looked at them and they looked at me, pointedly, because they had decided what sort of person I was thanks to the altercation we had all just had. ‘Margery, are you feeling all right after your jab?’ said one to the other, more quietly. ‘Well, now you ask, no, I’ve been rather ill for two weeks now. I’m sure it’s nothing.’ ‘Yes, I feel dreadful too. I’m sure it’s nothing.

‘We’re sorry your experience with us has not been a good one,’ said the press officer at Surrey Police. ‘You misunderstand me,’ I told the chap. ‘I didn’t expect being cautioned for breaking the law to be a good experience. In fact, I think it’s very important that breaking the law and being caught is not a good experience.’ I explained to the officer who had telephoned in response to my enquiry that I was not complaining about being fined for not having an MOT. I was unhappily happy with that bit.

‘Anything you say may be given in evidence. Do you have anything to say?’ I looked at the baby-faced police officer and tried to think of an appropriate response. I had been driving to Guildford station to meet a friend who every now and then comes from his nearby home on the train. I park in the station car park and together we walk to a kebab shop, order some food, eat it where we can perch, and cheer ourselves up. Running low on diesel, I pulled into a filling station on the way. After pulling back out, I noticed a police car close behind. I turned into the railway station and its lights flashed. Readying myself to explain the Covid-compliant kebab, I wound down my window.

The street light as bright as the Dog Star was fitted with a shield, and I was assigned my own personal engineer who rang and texted me. Whether or not this was because I had threatened to throw myself out of the window, I can’t be sure. But it is certainly true that I got service with a smile after I lost my already limited supply of marbles and yelled down the phone to Surrey County Council that if they didn’t do something about the bright white LED bulb shining into my bedroom from the street lamp newly fitted with the latest ‘energy saving’ technology, then I would jump. It was a ‘day burner’, which meant it was on all day and all night.

Eventually, I got so bored I ended up at Burger King. For no other reason than to amuse myself one evening, after doing next to nothing all day, I entered the car park of the Ladymead retail park outside Guildford. I wasn’t hungry but I convinced myself I would like a bean burger, because it was either that or sit at home watching the builder boyfriend watching Bangers and Cash, a TV show about old cars for unreconstructed men like him. And I had done that for what seemed like 175 almost consecutive evenings already.

The kitchen tap began dripping as if it knew perfectly well that this would land me in a predicament whereby I would have to brave a phone line. I tried a friend who is a plumber but he confirmed that getting a new valve would involve contacting the kitchen shop where I bought the tap, and he didn’t fancy it. ‘Fine,’ I said, ‘I’ll call them. But if I’m going to do the worst bit, then I might as well get him to fit it for nothing.’ By which I meant the builder boyfriend. My plumber friend agreed and then abandoned me to my fate.

An everlasting lightbulb brighter than the Dog Star was installed in the street lamp outside my house one morning as I watched the two engineers being lifted up on a crane. I knew it was trouble as they took out the soft yellow bulb from the antique holder and installed a bright-white LED. I had been dreading this, but when it finally happened the result was worse than I could have imagined, because they didn’t put it on a timer, like the old one. They switched it on and left it on. All day and all night it blasts out its blinding white light. It is never night time. What the devil is this light for? I live up a track on a quiet village green. Counting mine, there are only eight houses up here. No one comes or goes at night except for the odd dog walker.

Not long after he took on a smallholding for his cobs, the builder boyfriend found a couple walking through his fields with their dog. They had appeared out of nowhere, apparently by squeezing through a small hole in the hedge with a neighbouring property. As there is no footpath through his land, the BB was perplexed. ‘Can I help you?’ he called. But the smartly dressed couple waved him away. ‘No, thank you!’ the man called back politely enough, as he and his wife walked on with their spaniel, which darted this way and that, soon entangling itself with Jimmy and Duey, the builder b’s black and white cobs.

Never mind Clap for Carers, I’m trying to start a new weekly morale booster called Scream If You’re Going Round The Bend. The idea is you come out on to your doorstep once a week and stand there screaming until you’ve got it all out. It could be fantastically cathartic and do much to help the growing mental health problems caused by lockdown. Let’s make it every Friday at 8 p.m. I don’t want to clash with the key worker hero worship, so Thursday night is out, and doing it on Wednesday would only make it look as though I was trying to upstage Our Wonderful NHS. If we make it Friday night it could be something to look forward to, a way of starting the weekend.

Our battle with the EU has given me an insight into the parking disputes outside my house. Or is it that the parking disputes outside my house have given me an insight into Britain’s battle with the EU? Either way, I was reading through this Brexit trade deal we’ve accepted because we can’t be bothered to counter illogic with logic any longer, and it suddenly occurred to me why my neighbours persist in parking outside my house. And why, when I then park outside their house or someone else’s, I’m the one getting the funny looks. People push each other about for no better reason than the way one horse kicks another in a field.

Bring back the men having sex in the undergrowth. This was the thought that occurred to me and my friend simultaneously in a magical joint epiphany as we rode out over the misty heathland the other day. Wistfully, we beheld the sandy tracks of Ockham and Wisley from atop our mounts as we suddenly realised what was missing. They used to frequent this heathland most religiously and many is the time I’ve whinged about them, including once in a family newspaper where I posed for pictures with the spaniel Cydney, looking disgusted. My harrumphing face made it clear: I don’t approve of married men pulling off the A3 in their saloon cars and getting it on with each other at a local beauty spot on the way home to wifey.

If the novelty of going for a walk doesn’t wear thin for the marauding masses soon, I am going to have to buy a laminator. I’ve bought so many warning signs off the internet telling townies what they can’t do around livestock, I might have to learn how to make signs myself. A bulk order of ‘Dogs Must Be on a Lead at All Times’ had to be placed during lockdown as we started to attract people who would rather be at Westfield shopping centre. I affixed them along the fence line inside my field, along with traffic cones and stripy roadworks barriers, because although walkers should not be in my field, once they stray off the footpath and go in there you cannot assume they will know what to do about it.

Now that our social lives are a Venn diagram that only mathematicians can understand I am officially becoming a recluse. I’ve been getting to this point for years, but since the latest Covid rules mean that what we can and can’t do until ‘vaccine freedom day’ can only be understood if you have a head for shaded charts, I am resigning from polite society, in so far as I was ever in it. Boris may as well have announced 375 tiers and a rule saying anyone who wants to celebrate Christmas needs to sit inside an actual bubble and roll themselves along the floor. I have no idea what the government is on about any more.