Melissa Kite

‘Hi I did Put it on It needed more’ is the pleasingly obscure haiku I find on my kitchen table. It is from Denise, one of the most wonderful people I know. To give Denise a title — such as cleaner, cleaning lady, home help — would be disingenuous or even downright rude. Because it is fair to say that, in the years I have been privileged to know her, I have not only had my flat cleaned by Denise, I have had my mind broadened, my spirit fortified and my soul set on a path to a place where she assures me I shall surely find peace when the judgment day comes. Denise, from Kingston, Jamaica, is a Jehovah’s Witness, though in all the time she has been coming to my flat she has never once left me one of those Watchtower leaflets on my kitchen table.

Strangely enough, I was in the middle of writing an article about the tactics used by the RSPCA when another animal charity knocked on my door. A young man holding a clipboard was standing on the doorstep, grinning enthusiastically: ‘Hello! I’m from Battersea Dogs Home.’ ‘Hello,’ I said, ‘I’m a bit busy.’ Exposing animal welfare charities for preying on innocent people. I didn’t say that last bit out loud. ‘I just need to tell you,’ he said, ‘that we’ve got a big fundraising drive because a lot of dogs are being abandoned at the moment. And...’, he paused for dramatic effect, ‘...a lot of them have been tortured.’ ‘Tortured?

The problem with not getting married, I am increasingly realising, is that you cannot get divorced. There is no mechanism for separating when you are simply co-romancing with someone. The builder boyfriend and I are not even cohabiting. We simply pop round to each other’s houses as the fancy takes us. Not that I am complaining, necessarily. After a lot of stops and starts we are currently rather happy. And this is all very fine and dandy. But every now and then a dread panic grips my heart and I think, ‘Hang on a minute. What if I ever want to get out?’ We’ve been together on and off for three years now. It seems like only yesterday that we met.

A parcel has arrived addressed to ‘Cydney Kite’. The spaniel is ecstatic. She has never received her own mail before, let alone an express delivery package. She wags her entire body frantically as I open it and is driven half demented by the heady smell that arises as I lift out the packing bubbles to reveal... The nice people at Lily’s Kitchen have sent her a food parcel. They read about me getting a £60 parking fine for stopping outside the pet shop and would like to help out. There is a lovely note to this effect and a selection of canned meat, biscuits, treats and a packet of particularly strong-smelling dried fish sticks, which I’m guessing is what is making her almost hyperventilate with excitement.

With a heavy heart, I have just conducted my biannual lying session. I hate that I have to do this. I am an honest person driven to the extremes of fib-telling by a situation that I can see no other way out of. Every time I find myself in this situationI search my soul for a better way out. But there just is no other way. I have to lie. I have to lie when I sit down in the dental hygienist’s chair and she asks me the question: ‘Have you been flossing?’ I do not understand why it should be that a woman in a white coat holding a tooth poker can drive a good person to perjure themselves.

As a rule, I tend not to frequent places where there is a sign on the door saying ‘no sharps’. But I thought I would make an exception for the Eden Project. Surely, I thought, as we walked from the ‘Banana’ car park to the ticket office, they must mean sharps as in penknives, or something. The number of people in the queue wearing sandals made from reconstituted tyre rubber was a further warning sign but I chose to ignore it. As we stood amid the rainbow-striped cardigan-wearing clientele and their brightly dyed hairstyles, the builder had a look on his face that said: ‘I think we’ve wandered into the wrong sort of place for us.’ My parents insisted on buying the tickets.

‘Cydney,’ I have just told the spaniel, ‘you had better enjoy this tin of dog food because it cost me £67.50.’ I hear you ask, ‘How on earth is this possible? Are you feeding foie gras to your cocker?’ I might as well be. It would be cheaper than buying pet food in Streatham after Transport for London has run amok with a red line painter in a deserted street. I had pulled up as normal outside this sleepy little pet shop on the corner of a quiet residential street to get the dog a consignment of Lily’s Kitchen. I parked in the large empty bay outside, which still looked for all the world like the dedicated customer parking it has always been. Yes, I suppose if I had scoured the tarmac beneath my feet I might have seen lines.

‘I have a feeling,’ said my father, ‘that this evening is not going to go well.’ We were sitting in the bar of a local fish restaurant near my parents’ home having pre-dinner drinks, and I was throwing a wobbly because my tomato juice wasn’t right. I had arrived at the table after putting my order in as I went off to park the car, only to find a drink in a bottle called Big Tom sitting on the table. You know the drill, it’s the little things that get me. I immediately went into one because I cannot understand why asking a bartender to make a tomato juice from scratch is considered beyond the call of duty these days.

If we had to fight a war on the home front I’m fairly sure we would be stuffed. I base this claim on what happens if you try to buy a sandwich at ten past three in Surrey. You walk into a small shop in a nice village. You select a sandwich from the chiller cabinet — egg mayonnaise — and put it down on the counter along with a Diet Coke. You get out your money and look at the lady behind the counter as you wait for her to announce the amount you owe, but instead of taking your money the lady says: ‘Sorry, kitchen’s closed.’ ‘Excuse me?’ ‘Kitchen closed at 3 p.m. Sorry. We’re not doing food.’ ‘No, you don’t understand. I don’t want you to make me anything. I’ll just have this sandwich here.

The vet arrived at the stable yard wearing his customary grin. He is the happiest man I know. Of course he is. As he once explained to me, horses may be incredibly badly designed for the purposes of the horse-owner, but they are spectacularly well designed for the purposes of equine veterinary practices. ‘Don’t you dare look smug,’ I told him, as he whistled his way into the thoroughbred filly’s stable. ‘If this is bad, you’d better get a syringe full of sedative ready for me because I am going to go nuts.’ ‘Ha haaa!’ he laughed, ecstatically. ‘I’m serious. I want ketamine.’ ‘Ha haaa! Good one, Mel!’ He sounded like he had already had some.

‘And for my next trick,’ said the Volvo, as I parked at the supermarket and pulled the handle of the door to get out, ‘I shall refuse to open while you are inside.’ ‘What the…?’ I said, after pulling the handle a couple of times. I clicked the lock button by the window just in case I had inadvertently managed to child lock the driver’s door. Then I clicked the unlock button on the key. Then I turned the ignition on and off. Then I tried the handle again. Then I decided to have a good scream. I had only just had the 72 fault codes cleared by Karl the mechanic. The Volvo had been flashing warnings at me for weeks. But Karl could find nothing wrong. Then there was the broken wing mirror, only partially fixed with a new mirror piece.

‘What is this, please?’ I said to the estate agent, as he showed me into the building site he was calling a house. ‘This,’ he said beaming, ‘is the kitchen and breakfast room area.’ I picked my way over the rubble and stood in the dark, pokey room with its walls of hideous grey breezeblock. ‘I thought I asked you not to show me anything without a second fix, Sedrick.’ ‘Well, yes, but,’ said Sedrick, one of those perky young estate agents you can’t keep down, ‘you just need to use a bit of imagination. If you stand over here you can really get a feel for it. The space, I mean. You can get a sense of what it will be like when...’ ‘Stop!

In the end, I threw my mobile phone into a sack of Chudley’s dog biscuits. It was the only way I could finish the book. The bag of Chudley’s was in a cupboard so it didn’t even matter that I hadn’t silenced the phone before I threw it in there. At most, all I could hear as I hammered away on the keys of my laptop was a faint beep every few minutes as everyone in the universe texted me to say how disgusted they were that I wasn’t answering. Result: finished book. In one day. That’s all it took. Six months I’ve been labouring over this novel with my phone beeping beside me, like a baby sparrow with its needy little beak open. But in the space of one blissful day when my phone was inside a sack of dog biscuits I managed to get it done.

‘Ouch!’ said the ex-builder boyfriend. ‘I think something’s bitten me.’ And a few seconds after that, something bit me too. We had been walking in the woods with the spaniel, when a winged creature of some sort, or possibly an agile snake, decided to take a chunk out of us both. Within a few hours, the builder was complaining of feeling sick. And my leg started swelling. I’m allergic to mosquito bites, or at least I suspect I am because whenever I get one, it grows to a carbuncle. This time, the bite left an angry raised red patch on the back of my thigh that just grew, and grew, and grew...I decided to plaster it in steroid cream and dose myself up with antihistamine.

Just when I thought I couldn’t possibly fight any more battles, a pink planning notice is pinned to the lamp post in front of my house. The upstairs neighbours are planning a loft conversion. Not just any old loft conversion. All I can see as I scan the notice, my eyes glazing over in a panic-stricken blur, are the words ‘dormer windows’. It has been said that ‘cellar door’ are the most beautiful words in the English language. Surely, the words ‘dormer windows’ are the most terrifying. The worst part about finding the words ‘dormer windows’ pinned to the lamp post outside my flat is that they have been there for goodness knows how long.

You know you’ve been irreversibly sucked into the ninth circle of horse-owning hell when you find yourself perusing an equine supplement catalogue. If you ask me, these tomes should have a disclaimer on the front saying, ‘Abandon all hope, ye pony-lovers who enter here.’ The equine supplement industry is a vast money-burning pit into which you shall surely fall unless you hold fast and stolidly remain the sort of owner who says ‘stuff and nonsense’ whenever anyone tries to tell you that horses have complementary medicinal needs. I used to be extremely stolid. I once overheard a horse-owner in a stable yard telling a fellow livery: ‘My boy is loving his turmeric!

Really, I do wish people would stagger their baby-making. Absolutely every professional person whose services I have required in the past few weeks has declared themselves out of action for procreational reasons. And before I get accused of sexism, most of them have been men. It is a very strange thing, this trend for paternity leave. I wouldn’t mind, but it doesn’t just start when the baby arrives. It seems to take men out of gainful employment in the run-up to the birth as well as after it, nowadays. I’m sure this never used to be the case. As I understand it, my father, for example, was able to work right to the moment my mother went into hospital to have me.