Melissa Kite

Looking for ways to de-stress and cure my eczema has become my new obsession. It is very, very stressful. It often involves hurtling to the corner shop to buy chocolate. I was doing this the other day when I happened upon a little spa next to the Spar. It was called the TenSixTwo treatment rooms. I have no idea why it was called this. I can think of nothing very symbolic about those numbers. I thought at first it was something to do with the street number but it wasn’t. This is the sort of thing I worry about. I worried so much about why the TenSixTwo was called the TenSixTwo that I was very quickly more stressed than when I went in. I looked at the treatments on offer.

When the steroids stop All good things come to an end. I had to stop taking the steroids sooner or later or I would start to look like one of those sprinters of indeterminate gender. It was fun while it lasted, and came in really handy when my friend fixed me up on a dinner date with an older man. When the conversation hit a lull I mentioned that I was on prednisolone and we were away. You couldn’t shut us up. He had been on it for three months, because of a bladder operation, which rather trumped me, but it was still terribly jolly trading stories about side effects. It was with great sadness, therefore, that I popped the last little 1mg pill at the end of my decreasing regime.

‘I need to ask you something,’ said Steve the sandwich man, looking me up and down suggestively as he buttered my baguette. ‘I need to ask you something,’ said Steve the sandwich man, looking me up and down suggestively as he buttered my baguette. I like Steve. I call at his sandwich hut just off the A3 almost every time I go to the stables to ride my horse. I always order a tuna mayonnaise baguette with salad no onions. And he and I always have a little flirt with each other while he makes it. Steve has spiky peroxide blond hair, a ring through his nose, and lots of tattoos. But I’m getting to that stage in life when such things are no longer a bar to romantic progress.

Within three clicks of using my new laptop I am apoplectic with frustration. Why does technology always get more complicated, not less? When is someone going to make a computer that is easier to use than the last one, not more difficult? And, above all, when will my new laptop stop talking to me? It has been asking me things constantly since I started it up. This is annoying because I made perfectly clear to Matt, my favourite computer geek at Curry’s, that he must make sure the laptop had everything it wanted before I took it home. Matt always has a terrible time with me. I ask for things like ‘a very small laptop with a large, square screen’.

Melissa Kite's Real life After three hours waiting, I am taken into a cubicle to be told by Nurse Ratched that there is nothing she can do. ‘Dermatology is not an emergency,’ she says sadistically, as I sit scratching myself into small pieces in front of her. ‘If I cut my hands off to stop them itching will that make it an emergency?’ I ask. ‘You’re very agitated,’ she says, with a scheming look. She intimates that she can probably have me committed to a secure mental ward if I continue to demand treatment from the NHS on a Saturday. So I leave. It’s time for the private sector. I phone my celebrity dietician friend and he tells me to get myself to the Princess Grace near Harley Street.

One day in the early Nineties, a trainee recruitment consultant looked down at their carpet and thought, ‘I wonder what’s under there.’ And so began a mania for exposed floorboards that has had the British professional aspirant class in a vice grip ever since. My twenty-something upstairs neighbours are currently in this grip. Nothing will dissuade them from the notion that tatty old bare boards are fantastically chic and fancy and that they have an inalienable human right to walk upon said boards, making an unholy racket. I simply cannot understand it. When I was growing up, bare floorboards were a matter of shame. A family’s prosperity was measured by the depth and silkiness of their shagpile.

A friend offers to take me to lunch to cheer me up. I tell him, ‘No, really, don’t. I’m a disaster area when I’m under the weather. You don’t want to get involved.’ I try to explain my theory of cross-catastrophe. I am one of those people for whom troubles come in multitudes. I don’t just get sick, I get sick and then my washing machine explodes and my roof starts leaking and my rabbit eats the Sky cables. I try to explain that if he really wants to help he will come over and hammer large pieces of crooked wood over my windows. But he won’t listen. He pitches up at my house and insists we take my car to the little French restaurant five minutes away on Wandsworth Common. I tell him this is madness.

My appeal against a fine for stopping for a few seconds on a faded zigzag line in a dark, deserted suburban street has been rejected, unsurprisingly. What is more surprising is the letter I received telling me about this. It was signed by someone called Okiemute O, and where his signature ought to have been there was a big X. Mr O is the Representation and Appeals Investigation Officer at Lambeth Council, according to the blurb by his ‘signature’. I have no idea why this senior bureaucrat funded by the taxpayer cannot give his surname on official letters. Possibly he is cultivating a sort of mystique. Possibly he fears that if he gives his full name I will go round to his house and complain to him in person about the ordeal he is putting me through. Possibly he cannot write.

A dimly lit street in a drab south London suburb at 8 p.m. on a weekday night. A girl driving to her friend’s house for dinner. Suddenly the girl gets a blinding headache and needs to pull over. She searches in vain for a space but cannot see anything. The headache gets worse and worse until just when she thinks she is going to pass out from the pain she spots a small opening by the curb outside a shop. Thank goodness, she thinks, I can get some painkillers. There is an eerie atmosphere in the dark street as she parks. A climate of fear seems to prevail. If this were the opening scene from a horror film, some really creepy music would start to play as the girl steers her car into the space outside the shabby line of shops. Obviously the girl is me.

That it should come to this. I suddenly realised I was bent double over my wheelie bin, my head inside it, riffling for rogue bits of plastic or cardboard thrown in by neighbours or passing drunks, or passing drunk neighbours. ‘I’m a civilised person, reduced to the status of a bum!’ I screamed in outrage when I realised what I was doing. If you had written a sci-fi novel in the Sixties you could not have predicted that the year 2011 would see law-abiding, middle-class people riffling desperately through garbage. But as macabre as it sounds, it’s actually worth doing for the amount of money I could save. Despite government promises to change the law, it’s still a £1,000 fine for not recycling in my area right now.

Nothing makes me want to move to Cobham more than a letter from Lambeth Council that begins like this: ‘Dear householder: We have made changes to our recycling and refuse services. These changes are the result of a waste strategy that we have been developing over the last two years with your help.’ I hadn’t realised that I had been helping Lambeth Council with anything, least of all a waste strategy. In fact, I would go so far as to say I had been under the impression that I had been very deliberately trying not to help Lambeth Council with anything, especially its waste strategy. But apparently this is not the case. ‘From 4 April 2011 every Lambeth resident must recycle their rubbish.

One of the joys of spring is my annual nose around other people’s houses. Or it used to be. It seems things have changed in the house-hunting world. Estate agency has become automated. I had spotted a nice three-bedroomed place near Tooting Common and had rung the agent to ask them to show me round. ‘Are you registered with us?’ said the perky voice at the other end, sounding suspiciously like a call centre operative. There then followed an inquisition I can only liken to getting through security at Tel Aviv airport when you’ve got a stamp on your passport from Iran. It started with the utterly baffling question: ‘Why are you looking to move house?’ Why?

Never download anything strange from the internet. Never put your credit card details into a site you are unfamiliar with. Yes, I know. But I was desperate. I couldn’t make my father’s new laptop work and having bought it for him as a gift I was miffed. So I started clicking on all sorts of dangerous-looking icons in an attempt to save face. In particular, I decided to click ‘Download Microsoft Office now!’ This is because after a cursory examination of the machine I decided that the problem was most likely that, in a moment of blondeness, I had forgotten to install Office when I bought it, and that a free trial of the product had come to an end, thus disabling the system which should store my father’s documents.

After saying the word ten times I realised I was fighting a losing battle. I was sitting in the back of a taxi at Cardiff station and I could not get the driver to understand where I wanted to go to. This was distressing because, so far as my family has been able to make out, the Kites originate from Wales. We like to think we were Welsh falconers, back in the day. I’ve always loved Wales, and fondly remember summer trips to Ruthin Castle, my father stopping the car on windswept hilltops so I could feed the rain-drenched sheep. I haven’t been for ages but I keep my hand in: I watch Gavin and Stacey. But here I was in a cab in Cardiff saying a word on a piece of paper over and over to no effect. ‘Swalec. I want to go to the Swalec stadium.

Every time a man tells me he doesn’t want to marry me after all I buy a horse. This is getting very expensive, as you can imagine. Tara Lee appeared weeks after I inquired of a fiancé about the possibility of us having children. I can’t remember whose idea she was now, but she proved most effective. It is hard to hanker after babies when one is being hurled around the hunting field on the back of a mutinous mare who wants to be the first over every six foot hedge with a dirty great ditch in front of it. My maternal instincts were thus stifled. The next boyfriend played an equally cunning game by claiming he wanted wedding bells and babies while doing everything in his power to make sure bells and babies came there none.