Melissa Kite

I realise that I have for some time been approaching my life with all the flexibility of an Orangeman. Every day I march my traditional route to a well-known sandwich shop. I buy the same sandwich and march back. Anyone who gets in my way is treated with the sort of courtesy that a member of the Orange Lodge might muster to deal with a group of Catholic residents on the Garvaghy Road. ‘Stand aside, I must walk over this precise piece of pavement because that is the way it has always been.’ Tourists taking photographs are given particularly short shrift — I must figure in literally thousands of smiling holiday snaps as I fulfil my lunch requirements with the grim determination of an Apprentice Boy of Londonderry.

Ten minutes into Les Misérables my boyfriend turned to me and whispered, ‘Is it just me or is this Charlie Rap?’ As the thunderous clatter of a large prop being unceremoniously dropped backstage reverberated around the mournfully tatty Queen’s Theatre, I concurred that the legendary musical was indeed a load of Mr Charles. It was also Kieron Dyer. And downright Pete Tong. Despite everything that has ever been written about it stating the exact opposite, it seemed embarrassingly obvious to me that for some bizarre reason, perhaps for one night only, the plot was stupid, the music was awful and most of those on stage could neither sing, act, dance or move around without bumping into each other, dropping things or coughing.

Silly really. Although it seemed like a good idea at the time. A girls’ poker evening. I forgot that trying to persuade a group of women to do anything involving a certain absence of men is like trying to get them to turn up to their own funeral. I’ve tried to organise these sorts of escapade before and it has inevitably been like pulling teeth without gas. Everyone spends the night looking at their watches and fiddling furiously with their mobile phones under the table. You can hardly hear the sighs of despair above the frantic tapping of text messages to real people, i.e., men. At 10.30 p.m. sharp the entire gathering simultaneously announces that it is absolutely shattered and whilst it has been a lovely evening it really is time to go home to bed.

The curtain of my upstairs neighbours’ flat has been hanging by a single hook for three weeks, and if something is not done about it soon I am going to call the police. There must be a part of Blair’s legacy, a piece of legislation on a statute book in Westminster somewhere, which includes a clampdown on this sort of thing. If the nanny state stands for anything it must stand for minimum standards of household drapery. A socialist administration so authoritarian that it can oversee the baking of cakes at village fairs can surely enforce interior décor regulations in the smarter parts of south London as a way of safeguarding property prices. In the present climate, the economy cannot withstand shocks like this. Let’s be clear.

Your ordeal starts innocuously enough. ‘Welcome aboard the south east trains service to London Waterloo. This train will be calling at...’ You settle back in your seat and for a few moments wallow in blissful ignorance of the ruthless campaign of mental torture that is about to be unleashed on you as part of a complete moral and intellectual reconditioning by state agents for anti-democratic purposes. ‘The ticket inspector will shortly be making his way through the train.’ You recognise the silkily patronising voice of Patricia Hewitt but think no more about it. She can’t have had that many offers when Gordon took over, and it’s regular work.