Sometimes I don’t suspect the world has gone mad, I know it. For example, I took a black cab home from the theatre the other night and, as we passed Tooting Common, the driver wound down his window and threw a handful of raw sausages out of it. I tapped the glass politely and asked him what he was doing. ‘I’m feeding the foxes,’ he said, reaching down for another sausage.
The vermin of Tooting were, of course, delighted. A hungry pack raced alongside us drooling and snaffling up the raw, pink meat as the cabbie cooed and called out pet names for them. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, leaning forward and tapping on the glass again, ‘but I’d like to point out that it’s your fault I have to live with this lot ripping apart my bins and running amok.’
‘Nah!’ said the cabbie, ‘you wanna encourage the foxes, mate. If it weren’t for them there’d be more rats.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘They eat the rats, see.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Yeah, I’ve seen it.’
‘Well, I’ve never seen it, and even if they did it’s not much comfort. They’re vermin, too, you know. They carry disease.’
‘Rubbish,’ said the cabbie, getting agitated.
I decided I had better stop arguing until he got me home. But the second I had paid him and got the door open, I let rip: ‘You’re the problem, you know that?’
‘No, I’m not,’ he said; ‘anyway, what’s your name?’
‘What’s that got to do with it? Melissa.’
‘Hello, Melissa, you’re lovely.’
This was too much. ‘I’m a supporter of fox hunting,’ I said, but he just laughed.
‘I hope I see you again.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Yes, you and me…’
You and me? The cabbie who feeds foxes and the girl who likes to chase them on horseback? Was he demented? But just to show that hunters are not bad people I asked him his name.
‘I’m Joe,’ he said, ‘and I’ll look out for you and when we meet again I’ll serenade you.’ Which probably means he’ll throw raw sausages at me.
The next morning, still reeling from Joe Le Taxi fox-feeder, I made my way to Boots to buy provisions for my forthcoming Kilimanjaro climb. I’m getting quite into this now. I have worn in a very nice pair of Scarpa boots, my friend Ingrid has given me all her kit from when she did the climb, including a state-of-the-art sleeping bag with silk liner and inflatable mattress — no comfort spared.
I’ve had my jabs, I’ve got my malaria and altitude sickness pills, my toe guards and blister plasters. I’ve even read the email from the expedition leader about where we are actually going. OK, so I haven’t quite done that yet but I did glance at it and I know it involves something called the Meringue route, or it might have been Marangu. All I needed, as I put the finishing touches to my backpack, was some vitamin B1 to prevent mosquito bites.
I searched the vitamin aisle of Boots in vain then went up to the pharmacy counter to ask for it. ‘I’d like some vitamin B1 please,’ I said, innocently. The pharmacist, a glassy-eyed girl in her 20s, stared back accusingly. ‘What for?’ she said, with inexplicable hostility.
‘Well, er, I want it for preventing mosquito bites.’
‘That’s not what it’s for.’
Oh, dear. I’ve had pharmacy health and safety overload before, when trying to buy a tube of Bonjela for my horse’s mouth ulcers. In the end, I had to tell the chemist that when I said it was for my horse I had made a mistake and imagined I owned a horse and was in fact buying it for myself. She still wouldn’t sell it to me until I went back out of the shop and came in again.
‘Right, well, let’s just say I want some vitamin B1 because I would like to be really healthy,’ I said, being as general as possible for her insurance and risk assessment purposes.
‘I’m not selling you thiamine,’ she barked.
‘What’s that?’
‘Thiamine. I’m not selling it to you.’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ I said. ‘I’m not asking for methadone, or Valium, or crack, or high-grade cocaine. I want vitamin B1.’
At which point, she got that ‘I’m about to call security’ look and I confess I called her an idiot. I stand by it, too. If she wants to initiate verbal abuse proceedings, I say, bring it on. I’m ready. I’m willing to get a lawyer and go to court and argue my right to call a person who refuses to sell vitamin B1 an idiot. And while I’m there, I shall defend my right to confront cabbies who feed sausages to foxes.
Sponsor Melissa’s Kilimanjaro challenge at www.justgiving.com/Melissa-Kite
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