Melissa Kite

The Airbnb help centre chatbot kept telling me that she understood how frustrating it must be for me to have all these problems created by Airbnb. But she offered no solution, save for congratulating me effusively on being a wonderful host. After a while I asked this person, allegedly a woman: ‘Are you real or is this AI?’ For the relentlessly upbeat drivel she was churning out bore no resemblance to the furious questions I was typing in. I could have told her I was about to throw myself out of the window because of the rise in Airbnb’s fees and the redesign of their app that stops me from using it unless I buy a new £600 iPhone, and she would have replied: ‘Melissa, we know what a great job hosts like you do for guests!

Lying in bed with a swollen face, I decided that the best thing to do was nothing, so I ended up watching the Duchess of Sussex make smoothies. I don’t know why everyone is so mean about her Netflix show because it hit the spot for me. As I took to my bed after surgery to take out the old screws and plates in my long-ago broken jaw, everything put me on edge apart from watching Meghan and her lovely way of smiling and smiling as she expressed wonderment at a bunch of grapes, or the way a liquidiser whirred.

The private hospital room in Chelsea was so relaxing I would have stayed for a week if it was affordable. It was more luxurious than the all-inclusive in Tenerife I went to last year, but sadly not in the same price bracket. One night in a hospital with designer soaps, a menu in Arabic and a gorgeous view of the London skyline nearly broke the bank, so I had to let them discharge me as planned the morning after my operation. There wasn’t really that much wrong with me, and certainly not enough to call it ‘a journey’, as all health crises are now termed.

‘I want to learn Iranian,’ said my father, resolutely, as he watched the bombing on the television. ‘Farsi,’ I said, thinking I would talk to him about that very happily on the basis it was better than helping him contact the Ukrainian government so he can fight the Russians. ‘What’s that?’ he said. ‘Farsi,’ I repeated. ‘Parcel?’ he said. But it was pointless trying to explain, for he was up and looking out of the window and telling me to look in the parcel box. We were waiting for the special food I had ordered for the new cat someone irresponsibly rehomed to my parents and which already has a stress condition from living with two dementia sufferers.

After a week in Coventry dealing with two parents with dementia, it would have felt like a nice spa break to go to Guantanamo Bay. The smallest cell at Gitmo and a pair of sensory deprivation earmuffs would have been sheer bliss. I got back from not picking up my father’s car from the garage and my mother was standing in the doorway crying. In the time it had taken me to drive three times the distance to the MOT test centre in a circle of unfathomable six-lane 30mph Midlands bypasses, because that was the way my father wanted to go, the garage had shut and his car was locked up on the street outside. I was rocking backwards and forwards slightly in the car seat making a humming sound as my father stood arguing with the closed shutters.

"Do you know who I am?" said the voice belonging to the lady who used to be my mother, crossly, at the end of the phone line. The truthful answer is no. Since the dementia took hold, a hostile stranger who doesn’t think much of me inhabits my mother’s mind and body. A hostile stranger who doesn’t think much of me inhabits my mother’s mind and body No matter what I do, no matter how many times I ring or visit her, this person who used to be my mother is always cross and disappointed. "Oh, you’re alive are you!" the strange voice barks, before asking me what I’m up to, with a sarcastic edge. Whatever I tell her I’m doing, even if I say I’m lying down with a headache, she snaps back: "That’s nice for you. You enjoy!

Assuming it was full of junk, I tried to pull the trunk out of the way but I couldn’t move it, so I opened up the lid and gasped. Whenever the builder boyfriend is away I do battle with clutter. I’d gone through acres of horse tack in the boiler room and was now up the back stairs in the rabbit warren of rough-and-ready back bedrooms which haven’t been used since the last family, who also ran this place as a guest house, made their children sleep there to free up the nicer rooms.

The man in the phone repair shop smiled all too confidently and told me that there was nothing I could present him with that he couldn’t fix. ‘That’s good,’ I said, holding out my smashed phone. But what I wanted to say was: ‘I am a hapless person who jinxes things. You may think this is just another straightforward job, but I want to give you fair warning before you take me on that nothing to do with dealing with me will be straightforward, and you will probably end up throwing me out of your shop. I am neurotic, added to which I have an otherworldly curse on me when it comes to technology, which makes everything malfunction.’ I did not say this, because I badly wanted my smashed phone screen replacing.

The estate agent said that they would send someone round tomorrow and I had to calm them down. Come in two weeks, I told them, because the builder boyfriend is still painting the hallway with the yellow paint I don’t much like any more because it’s taken so long. The new laws leave us paranoid about having anyone step foot in our house for longer than three weeks They love selling these old country piles in Ireland because they change hands so often it’s a licence to print money – not for the owners, but for the agents who keep selling them year after year, after the owners have not been able to afford to keep them going. Usually, it’s the lack of plumbers and tradesmen, but now there is another problem.

The dog café had a pretty pink sign describing its many services and I stood outside it mesmerised as I realised what it was. This was not a café where dogs were allowed. This was a café for dogs. I peeked inside and there were dog baskets for the customers to lounge in as they drank their puppuccinos. There are so many things about Britain that are too subtle for me when I re-enter the atmosphere as an expat My friend and I were on our way to dinner on the Fulham Road and we ended up standing by this café as I stared with my mouth open and asked her repeatedly how this could be. There are so many things about Britain that are too subtle for me now when I re-enter the atmosphere as an expat.

The panic of another season bore down on me as the builder boyfriend painted the breakfast room with the green paint I’d chosen. But he couldn’t paint fast enough for my liking and we started to have the most terrible rows. Despite us being fully booked last summer, I had come to the view that the whole thing wasn’t viable and we were bound to go under. I started looking up estate agents who market big old piles in Ireland to stupid people in America. This house is like a monster devouring my money faster than I can feed it. I fed the beast by filling the oil tank to the brim at Christmas and it was a quarter gone by the new year.

The woman in the queue behind us in the supermarket glared angrily as my mother tried and failed to tap her credit card. We had tapped it in the chemist successfully, but she must have been on her last tap, again, and now she was out of taps. I felt my chest tightening. Here we go. My mother started arguing about why her card should be working, and when I got my card out, she said: ‘No, don’t be silly! I’m getting this!’ A few years on from a vague diagnosis of some sort of vascular dementia to do with blood flow to the brain, she has no idea what a PIN is, never mind what her PIN is.

After two weeks of us heating the house to the temperature my nearly 90-year-old father wanted it, the door to the guest bedroom would no longer shut. The central heating had swollen the wood so much that it had to be planed down. The builder boyfriend and I had been lying in bed each night with the radiators in our bedroom off and the windows wide open. I’d venture out into the hallway at 3 a.m. to investigate why we were still too hot and a wall of heat would hit me. The thermostat I had left on tick-over was rammed to the far right once more and the boiler was at warp speed.

We spent an hour in the Garda station trying to explain ourselves to a flame-haired police lady. She sat with her pen poised over a statement pad on the desk in the interview room. Her uniform was extremely smart and emblazoned with gold emblems. At least the police dress nicely here, I thought. The builder boyfriend shifted uncomfortably in his seat in the claustrophobic room and started explaining that he really didn’t want to press charges. But many weeks on from a crash in which a young driver crossed a solid white line to speed down the wrong side of the road and plough into the BB’s truck head on, demolishing it and his own car, the boy still hasn’t filled in any of the insurance forms admitting liability.

As we reached the top of the hill and saw the view in front of us my heart thumped so hard I slammed my foot on the brake and declared that we had to turn back. A wind- and sea-battered piece of terrain jutting out into the Atlantic ocean told us very loudly to go away. I heard it in my head, as clear as a person saying it, and I pretended I hadn’t, but I had. So I stopped the car above that desolate valley and sat there, frozen, not knowing what to do or even how to turn the car in the narrow space. Having climbed a steep hill on this grass-covered road, we balanced almost on the summit of it, with the road falling away in front of us. Into the distance ahead twisted the road through the rugged landscape but we couldn’t see the place we sought at the end.

The smashed pick-up truck was delivered back to us after I burst into tears and began wailing at the recovery man. When all else fails, men usually cave in to what I like to call tear pressure. Their brains scream ‘Make it stop!’ and they’ll do pretty much anything. The tears gushed out of my eyes very easily as I stood in that recovery yard two days after the builder boyfriend had been hit head-on by a driver speeding down the wrong side of the road who smashed into him at such force that he took apart the entire driver’s side and undercarriage of his Mitsubishi L200. The truck was still on the low loader that had brought it back from the crash site as I stood there demanding its return. This was odd, I thought. Wouldn’t they have taken it off the truck by now?

The garage owner came at me with an angry expression as I pulled on to his forecourt, which was the last thing I was expecting. His employee had just crashed head on into the builder boyfriend while driving a sales car and, in my naivety, I was expecting the garage owner to cover the cost of the removal of the resulting wreckage – the written-off pick-up truck belonging to the BB and the totalled car driven down the wrong side of the road by the garage worker. But for some strange reason, which I hoped would become clear, he had let me pick up the bill for the recovery. I had just come from the yard where a bad-tempered man had taken my money and grudgingly given me a receipt.

Sitting beneath the looming darkness of the unfinished ceiling of Westminster Cathedral, I found myself praying. I didn’t even know why, but I was walking past during a trip to London and I decided to go in, and I sat down, and then a priest came and began to say mass so I stayed, not knowing what was about to happen back in Ireland to the builder boyfriend, and not having any real feeling that you could call premonition – unless you count an overwhelming urge to be sitting in a cathedral praying, when I have passed there many times on similar trips and never once gone in. It was a lovely experience, except it seemed to me that it was shameful that we Catholics were allowing Jesus to hang on the cross in the dark.

‘Where are you off to now?’ I asked the fellow from Hong Kong as he and his wife stood in the hallway ready to leave, their many suitcases beside them. At first it sounded like he said ‘Ukraine!’ very cheerfully, but he couldn’t have said that, obviously, so I asked again. ‘I mean, now you’re leaving West Cork, where are you off to next on your holiday? The Ring of Kerry? Killarney? The Cliffs of Moher?’ He stared at me like I was stupid. ‘Ukraine!’ he said, and then when I stared back he shouted: ‘U-KRAINE! You know Ukraine? Big war Russia Ukraine! Ukraine?’ ‘Yes, I understand you keep saying Ukraine, it’s just that I was under the impression you were on a road trip around Ireland.’ ‘Yeah we go Ukraine now!

As I was showing a couple from Lincolnshire to their room, I smelt a rat. I don’t mean metaphorically, about them. I mean that halfway down the hallway, as I walked two paying guests from the front door towards the staircase, the most overwhelming stench of rotting carcass wafted upwards from the floor, right next to the fancy dresser displaying the tourist leaflets. I glanced at them nervously to see whether they had noticed. They were telling me about their house-hunting. They wanted to move to West Cork to go off grid and get in touch with nature. That’s handy, I thought, because nature is currently rotting under the floorboards. Trust the darn critter to conk out beneath the main entrance hall just in time for a B&B arrival.