My state of independence

Being a self-employed copywriter in Ringmer is often a thankless task. This is good. In the past I’ve crafted letters from various chief executives, I’ve given voice to a cartoon mobile phone, I’ve interviewed one of the greatest racing drivers of all time and I’ve briefly become an expert on international rail travel. All great fun - and without any sign of Mark Bridge, whoever he is. My name rarely appears in print. As a result, no-one stops me in the street to offer their opinion. No-one photographs me when I pop to the shops wearing pyjamas and flip-flops. No-one asks me if I’m him from that thing.

The freelance lifestyle is also unstable. This is also good. While some of my contemporaries get their thrills from driving fast cars, kite-surfing and wild parties, I get my adrenaline rush from wondering whether my invoices will be paid before our mortgage is due. This is much safer, with absolutely no chance of a twisted ankle.

A writer in a big city may talk about working in a different coffee shop every day for a change of scenery. Here in Ringmer, fewer choices mean fewer visits. Ruling out the local pubs - which is a good idea, because I'd be inclined to stay for a bowl of chips and a pint when I'd finished my coffee - I'm left with a choice between Café Ringmer, an outside table at the bakery and the regular ‘Souper Saturday’ fund-raiser at the village hall. Quite simply, living in a village saves me a fortune on my cappuccino budget.

Then there’s the freedom. I don’t have any set hours to work, as long as I get the job done. I can stay up late if I want (although, to be honest, I often start dozing on the sofa before 10pm. The Newsnight theme might as well be a lullaby.) I can work at weekends, without any of the annoying paperwork associated with overtime payments. And I can even start early, just like most other people with regular jobs.

Of course, there are disadvantages. By not commuting, I miss out on the camaraderie of fellow travellers as we stand nose-to-armpit on public transport, I don’t see the cheery gestures that drivers exchange at the Cuilfail roundabout and there’s no chance for me to boost my circulation as I sprint through the rain to my desk.

Let’s face it, I am a man of mystery. And I’m about to become even more mysterious, because this is my last East of Earwig column. To everyone who’s enquired about the new house (still delightful), the grandson (still delightful) or the late Rupert (still in his little packet on the bedroom windowsill); thank you for joining me on my voyage of discovery through Ringmer. Meanwhile, if you’d like to know what happens next… I’m open to commissions.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 138 March 2018.

Turf Wars: living next door to malice

Our home is at the centre of a discomfiting territorial dispute. It started when we moved house last summer and - despite our best efforts - hasn't gone away. Harry the cat has, understandably, claimed our garden as his own. The cats that live next door see it as more of a community asset, particularly as there’s a conveniently cat-sized hole in the fence. Despite Harry’s insistence that the hole was only intended for hedgehogs, his fellow felines still pop round for the occasional chat. All we can do is shake our heads and shrug our shoulders in sympathy whenever Harry looks to us for support.

That’s pretty much the only disharmony in our street: intermittent tail twitching and a muttered miaow. Fortunately there's no personal disagreement whatsoever. Loving our human neighbours is remarkably easy. On a broader scale, Ringmer’s neighbours are equally likeable. Obviously I can’t say a bad thing about Lewes. (That’s due to contractual obligation rather than any personal preference.) Occasionally we hear a little noise when you throw a party – there’s some kind of thing you do every November, isn’t there? – but we’ve got used to it now. Barcombe Mills: it’s a delight to have you alongside us, although a bit of a shame about your lack of mills. Firle brings joy every time someone from the village says your multi-syllabled name. Obviously Isfield is notable for having the only working railway line within a significant radius. And talking of machinery, I really ought to mention Bentley Wildfowl and Motor Museum, which is surely the only place in the country that successfully combines ducks and racing cars without any harm to eider.

But all this is missing the biblical point of ‘love thy neighbour’. Jesus told the story of a man walking from Jerusalem to Jericho, which is rather like walking from the spiritual beacon of Ringmer to the far side of Hove, except that the road was considerably more dangerous. Not only was there no separate cycle path, there were also gangs of bandits roaming the countryside. In the bible story, the traveller has his life saved by someone who – in other circumstances – would have been seen as an enemy. Totes awk, as the Samaritan might have said when he texted his mates afterwards.

So, as well as loving my neighbour's cats and all the friendly people in our road who popped a Christmas card through the letterbox last year, it seems I have a biblical mandate to love people who live further away. Not just those in surrounding villages or even born-and-bred Brightonians. No, if I’ve understood the parable correctly, it seems I am being called to love those from far-away lands with lifestyles I don’t understand. Despite their strange customs and unfamiliar accents, the people of West Sussex are also my neighbours.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 137 February 2018.

Planning my own fun

As a child, I loved planning. Special occasions were as much about enjoying the anticipation as relishing the event itself. When our summer holiday approached, I created countdown charts on graph paper. Each square represented an hour to be coloured in. Such was my enthusiasm, when the chart was about half-complete I'd change the axis and redraw it on a larger scale. Eventually, after a few revisions, there'd be a square to fill every five minutes, which meant the time between finishing breakfast and walking to school became an unusually productive time of day. Then there were the library visits to research our destinations, the notes I wrote... I'd pretty much experienced the holiday in advance before mum and dad had even loaded the car.

This fondness for project management was reinforced by the TV shows I watched during the 1970s and 1980s. In Mission: Impossible, the Impossible Missions Force would be given their instructions every week via self-destructing tape. They’d make a plan and would carry out their mission (if they chose to accept it) to save the world from plotters in fictional Eastern European countries. Then The A-Team crashed onto ITV in their GMC van, with Colonel John 'Hannibal' Smith telling us he loved it when a plan came together. Their enemies may have been closer to home but the format was pretty similar: a briefing, some far-fetched plotting, at least one explosion and a wisecrack to wrap things up.

These days, I live in a village where everyone has a plan. Ringmer has a non-explosive neighbourhood development plan that was adopted following a referendum in November 2015. It becomes part of the decision-making process when Lewes District Council and the South Downs National Park Authority are considering planning applications, although sadly it doesn't offer much help when the county council proposes closing the local library. Best-laid plans and all that, as Robert Burns nearly said.

Which made me realise the flaw in all these schemes. All my holiday ideas were at the mercy of little brother, whose fondness for steam railways caused many a detour. The secret IMF team was often at risk of discovery, despite their implausibly effective latex masks. And nothing went as expected for The A-Team, even though they were a crack commando unit. Yet, in all these cases, everything worked out alright in the end.

Could this be a lesson for me? Apparently so. Last Christmas, a study published in the Journal of Marketing Research suggested that having a strict schedule for your weekend wasn’t a good idea. Not only did this reduce the excitement from anticipating your activities, it also reduced the enjoyment you experienced from each event. The best solution, according to authors Gabriela Tonietto and Selin Malkoc, is to keep your plans relatively vague until the day of the occasion. Which means it’s probably best if I put my graph paper away this year.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 136 January 2018.

Don't look back in manger

I’m dreaming of a traditional Ringmer Christmas. A turkey from butcher Lew Howard, a swift half in the pub after the carol service and a trip to the convenience shop for a pint of milk on 25th December. However, this year there’ll be a few additions. I’m planning to acquire a copy of Pears’ Cyclopaedia, a long-established pre-internet tome that may need to replace our local library if the county council’s proposed closure goes ahead. And there’s a family get-together planned, so our two-year-old grandson will be playing a significant role in the festive celebrations. In fact, there’s a good chance he’ll provide the main entertainment. That’s because every generation of young people learns a useless skill to a high level of expertise. When I was a kid, it started with the yoyo. I’d just about mastered ‘walking the dog’ by the time my contemporaries had moved on to Rubik’s Cube. Next came videogames. I lost interest fairly quickly, mainly because the only game I knew was the monochrome Asteroids machine in the corner of the coffee bar – and that cost 10p a go. Thanks to technology, today’s teens play games that look more like war documentaries, dexterously tapping their fingers to explode three-dimensional Nazi zombies rather than two-dimensional rocks. Our grandson already has his own specialist video-related party piece: he can peel a croissant in 15 seconds without taking his eyes off the latest TV adventures of Peppa Pig. This is a trick I might try to refine for long car journeys.

As well as practising pastry exfoliation, I probably ought to adopt a few more of the latest seasonal trends. According to The Sun, ‘extreme cleavage’ is one of the biggest fashion trends for Christmas 2017. This statement is illustrated with a photo of Amanda Holden’s chest and a reminder of her age, as though the ability to use double-sided tape is somehow remarkable for a 46-year-old. I’m already expecting some extreme cleavage at the dinner table, although ours is going to involve the turkey. Also predicted by style gurus is the return of tinsel. That’s no surprise to me: ours has been returning annually from a black bin bag in the loft since it was bought in Woolworths. In addition, financial experts have been cautioning against over-enthusiastic spending. Good news for all my friends, as it gives me an excuse to return to my childhood recipe for home-made peppermint creams, neatly presented in vol-au-vent cases and tasting more like toothpaste than confectionery.

Most importantly, this kind of back-to-basics Christmas means I have the perfect opportunity to teach my grandson some of the festive songs that meant so much to me as a schoolboy. All together now: "While shepherds washed their socks by night..."

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 135 December 2017

Mark gets militant

It was William Lonsdale Watkinson who coined the phrase 'far better to light the candle than to curse the darkness' in a sermon just over a century ago. Yet in a world that's threatened intermittently with nuclear war, depending on the availability of the US President's internet connection, it's easy to feel helpless against injustice. Of course, we can all prepare for the worst. Action films have told us the best way to react to unspeakable horror is to keep calm and carry on, walking unflinchingly through explosions. And I'm sure I'll find it pretty simple to substitute rat for free-range chicken in my post-apocalyptic cooking.

But all this metaphorical bunker-building feels a bit passive. Whilst it's good to have an excuse to stockpile tinned custard in the cupboard under the stairs, I doubt I'll have any opportunity to defend the village of Ringmer against a real attack. Or, at least, I didn't think I would... until my call-up papers arrived.

Like many people, I'm a little nervous about the delivery of any government document. I'm pretty sure that worming the cat doesn't qualify me for an MBE, which means a letter bearing the House of Commons portcullis is probably trouble. And indeed it is, but not in the way I expect. Local MP Maria Caulfield has written of her disappointment that East Sussex County Council is considering the closure of Ringmer library, along with six other local libraries. Her campaigning puts her in conflict with fellow Conservatives who control the council. Councillors say the planned closures would save money, although the inclusion of Ringmer seems counter-intuitive when the Village Hall building that contains the library has recently been enlarged and visitor numbers have increased. In fact, it was the Chair of ESCC who officially opened the new library last year.

Figures from ESCC mention a journey of 10 minutes from Ringmer Library to Lewes Library by bus, which would be absolutely true if there was a time machine waiting at Lewes Bus Station to save people from walking to the town's library. They also suggest the annual cost of running Ringmer library is around £8,000. That's just a quarter of the amount their councillors claimed in car travel for the last financial year. Sure, people from Ringmer could go into Lewes to use the library. But if that's the case, why stop there? Why not insist that Ringmerites could go into Lewes to use the shops, the schools and the pubs?

Anyone interested can respond to the consultation online at consultation.eastsussex.gov.uk or, if you prefer paper, by picking it up from the library. While you’re there, I’d also recommend borrowing a book. One day, you may even be able to pick up a copy of my favourite rodent recipes. I think I'll call it 'Cooking by Candlelight'.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 134 November 2017

Smells like nicotine spirit

In 1751, William Hogarth created an etching entitled Gin Lane, depicting the negative effects of what’s now known as the ‘gin craze’. I like to think he’d choose electronic cigarettes for his satire if he were around today. Whilst walking into a secondhand vapour cloud that smells of fried Ribena doesn’t involve the same health risks as tobacco smoke, it’s not a pleasant sensation. And I really don’t understand why some ‘vapers’ insist on using what looks like a Blue Peter rendition of Dr Who's sonic screwdriver to produce a cloud that’s large enough to be detected by a weather satellite.

At least pubs are smoke-free these days. And, if ever I needed the perfect excuse to pop out to Ringmer’s pubs for a cheering pint, this month's Viva Lewes theme was surely it. But where should I start? And, even more importantly, where should I finish? "Somewhere near home", recommends Mrs B. Wise words indeed.

I plan my route to begin at The Cock Inn, which can trace its history back to the 16th century. Contrary to my expectations, the owners say it isn't named after a male chicken but after the extra horse that was sometimes required to pull a heavy carriage up a hill. Apparently it's the type of additional horsepower necessary for the nursery rhyme journey to Banbury Cross. Next I'll head to The Anchor, established in 1742, which is described online as 'one of only 2 pubs in the village of Ringmer'. The Anchor's webmaster is clearly seeing double - and that's not enough, according to my figures, because I've yet to reach the Green Man. This, the Good Pub Guide tells me, is a 'welcoming 1930s roadside pub'. However, that's not when the name arrived: history books note the presence of a 'Green Man' in the village much earlier. All this is rather confusing, although I suppose that’s hardly surprising when alcohol is involved.

I decide to share my drink-focused journey plan with Mrs B. She looks disappointed. "You've forgotten the cricket club. And you’ve forgotten the football club, too." Indeed I have. Perhaps I could call at the cricket pavilion before crossing the village green to the Anchor, followed by a short walk round the corner to the football club. Except the cricket club bar is usually only open when there's a match - and the lack of spotlights or a pink ball means that'll be daytime. Come to think of it, I've missed the overlap between the cricket and football seasons for 2017. This has become a scheduling nightmare. I don’t even have the right kind of pet to take advantage of any dog-friendliness. Time instead to drink my troubles away with a cappuccino at Café Ringmer. As I approach, I’m sure I can smell coffee in the air. Or is it the residue of an espresso-flavoured e-cigarette?

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 133 October 2017

Read-only memory

My wife's flicking through photos of Rupert the cat on her phone. One shows him almost seventeen years ago, a tiny saucer-eyed creature with exactly the same symmetrical black-and-white markings as the adult cat I came to know. "I miss my little kitten", she says. I miss him too, although he was never my little kitten. Instead, he chose to adopt me in middle age. (His, obviously. I'm still in denial about mine.) Sadly, Rupert's not been himself for several weeks, which is why we're consoling ourselves by looking through old photos. At the moment he's sitting on the bedroom windowsill, although we only know it's him because his name's written on the label attached to a little wicker wallet. The preceding words on the label are 'In Loving Memory Of'.

Rupert had been forgetting things for a few months. He'd forgotten where his outdoor toilet was. Then he forgot to eat. Eventually he forgot to keep breathing, too. One Friday morning, we woke up but he didn't. We found him lying in his bed with his offside front leg stretched forwards, looking about as relaxed as he ever did. Frozen in the perfect taxidermy of death.

We couldn't bury him under his favourite tree because we were moving house and didn't want to leave him behind. So we had him cremated at Raystede's Peaceways crematorium, where we bid a sad farewell to him in his feline form and retrieved him a few days later in a disconcertingly gritty pocket-sized packet. And we wept, not just for the cat we'd lost but also for the love we weren't able to give him any more, for the extra love he'd never know.

Of course, he's haunting our new home. Bad ghosts haunt with a malevolent presence. They put white sheets over their heads and say "woo". A cat poltergeist might yowl mysteriously from the wardrobe at midnight or nibble their initials into an unwary mouse. Rupert haunts us with his absence. We know the shadow by the window isn't his. There's a cat-sized gap on the sofa between me and Mrs B. The buttery crumpet crumbs remain on our breakfast plates.

We'd expected to lose something when we moved. A picture frame was dropped. A self-assembly cupboard started disassembling itself. We spent a week with only a single cereal bowl between us before the rest of the mismatched set emerged. But we'd not expected to leave some of our happy memories behind.

Fortunately, plenty remain. We have hundreds of Rupert photos, all copied to secure online storage in some Californian bunker. Most importantly, we still have Harry, the backup cat. He's very fond of his new home... and of sitting in the extra space that's now available on the sofa. It almost looks like he's posing for a portrait.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 132 September 2017