I bring you bad tidings

Since Victorian times there's been an unwritten Christmas tradition in Britain. Anyone who says anything negative about the season will be called ‘a Scrooge’. Regardless of any concerns about the estate of Charles Dickens taking legal action over copyright, you're only allowed to be upbeat. EastEnders is bad, Morecambe & Wise are good. Disagree and Santa's little helpers will throw mistletoe at you. This was brought home to me last weekend when I went Christmas shopping in Lewes with my lovely wife. Whilst she stocked up on glittery cards, I distracted myself with my mobile phone. After a while I noticed she'd put her potential purchases down, mainly because she couldn't hold them at the same time as folding her arms in a threatening manner. "Stop tweeting", she told me. "I don't want to read your sarcastic comments when I get home". She was right, of course. This year, more than ever, there seems to be an inclination to treat Christmas with excess humour. To follow the 2012 trend I should have been offering my wit to everyone as we walked through the shops, not muttering to a tiny audience on the internet. There's postmodern irony wherever you look. The gingerbread latte has become a long-established festive drink. Sparkly shirts are now essential fashion for your office party. All mum's hard work will be ignored... but that's just the way things are, ho ho. Better stuff the turkey with indigestion tablets, eh? When you've finished laughing, you can move on to enjoying a wry smile. Listen to yuletide songs that talk about escaping the crowds to find a few minutes of peace, of battling through the supermarket aisles but discovering the true meaning of Christmas regardless. Watch seasonal TV programmes where everything falls apart before everything comes together. It's all wrong. Wrong, I tell you. We need to get back to a traditional Christmas.

So let's start with the Winter Solstice, a festival so significant that the ancient Brits toiled for many years to build Stonehenge as a place to celebrate it. Winter was a scary time in those days; reaching the solstice meant you stood a half-decent chance of surviving for another year without finding your family marked as tumuli on an Ordnance Survey map. Then there's 25th December itself, which commemorates Jesus being put in a feeding trough by his affianced mother because there was no room for him anywhere else. Christmas, therefore, is traditionally about being terrified. About working long hours to create something that's ultimately pointless. About awkward moments with the relatives. About important plans that didn't turn out as expected.

But that’s not to say we should be miserable now. In fact, I have the perfect role model. A man who laughed because he was genuinely happy, not because he was mocking the festive season. A man who realised Christmas was an excellent opportunity to help others. A generous man, a friendly man... and a man who enjoyed a joke, too. It’s Ebenezer Scrooge.

First published on vivalewes.com 13th December 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

Sing when you’re winning

We're well blessed for football in these parts. There are teams (yes, plural!) up here in Ringmer, Lewes has the Rooks and there's also Brighton & Hove Albion down the road in Falmer. I'll happily support local teams against their more-travelled opponents but I've never really been passionate about a particular club. This reluctance can probably be traced back to childhood. You see, I wasn't much good at football when I was younger; my usual role was that of scapegoat or 'defender' as my so-called mates described it. Unlike one of the children in my class, I didn't have the same permed hairstyle as Peter Ward. Heck, I played a musical instrument - apparently a sure indication that I was both homosexual and knew nothing about sport, according to my many detractors. And so I didn't support anyone. It was safer than choosing the wrong team.

My wife has a very different perspective. Born in Bolton, she's followed Bolton Wanderers throughout their oscillations between the top and bottom of the football league. With the 'Trotters' coming to the AmEx stadium for the first time, she was definitely going... and despite Brighton & Hove Albion tickets being easier to buy, we were heading for the 'away' end of the stands. Yes, we. I was to become a football fan.

The Saturday of the match was pretty wet; weather that would favour the northerners, I thought. The absence of my half-namesake, Wayne Bridge, from the Brighton line-up was an encouraging sign as well. At the very least it meant I wouldn't be standing in a crowd of people cursing my family name.

The positive omens were soon dispatched as Brighton started attacking. A number of Bolton's supporters responded with songs that seemed to condemn their rivals as being homosexual (this is starting to sound familiar) although the words weren't entirely clear. And if I couldn't make them out, I doubt that Brighton's players would have been too bothered. After Brighton scored, the Bolton fans turned into their own harshest critics and my wife's Lancashire accent intensified to the extent that she became utterly unintelligible. Fortunately I could interpret her facial expressions. She certainly wasn't happy.

The singing from the other terraces increased to a deafening level. Seaaa-guuuls. I kept quiet even though I knew the words to this one. I still couldn’t identify the lyrics to any of the Bolton football chants but was quickly learning the actions.

And then Bolton scored in the last few seconds of the game. They'd managed a draw. Suddenly the Albion weren't singing any more. As the final whistle blew, Bolton's fans tearfully embraced each other. Under different circumstances there'd have been a song for that kind of behaviour.

First published on vivalewes.com 29th November 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

Existential angst and egg sandwiches

It's not often that we have a family get-together. I visit mum most weeks, despite her apparent conviction that my journey from East Sussex to West Sussex is rather like crossing Berlin in the 1960s. She sees my brother more frequently, mainly because he doesn't live on the wrong side of Checkpoint Charlie. I sometimes feel under enormous pressure to defect to the West... but I also feel sure we're equally loved.

Little brother - for I'm two years ahead of him - has a whirlwind lifestyle that leaves me out of breath. Working long hours during the week, worthy deeds most evenings, golf at the weekend. Either that or he's very good at avoiding me. This week we managed to catch up, putting the world to rights by debating mobile phone technology, science fiction films and parking charges. The important stuff.

Sadly this family reunion wasn't a happy occasion. We were getting together for the funeral of a friend.

Now, I'm no fan of funerals. Unlike many of my mother's mates, I don't have a special funeral coat. I haven't turned funeral attendance into a hobby. I can even manage without the egg sandwich and cup of tea afterwards. You might think this sounds like fear and denial. Let's just say I'm more than a little disappointed that immortality isn't available on the NHS yet. At the very least, I reckon it should be possible to fit me with an atomic-powered mechanical exoskeleton by now. You know, rather like Robert Downey Jr in Iron Man. Not that I need it at the moment, although it would come in handy when running for the bus.

Anyway, my brother and I were chatting after the funeral and arrived slightly late at the wake, which meant most of the egg sandwiches had gone. As we're piling our tiny plates with spring rolls and cold pepperoni pizza, mum asks if one of us can refill her tea cup. Little brother obliges and I hear mum saying "my son is pouring me another cup". Not 'my younger son'. Not 'one of my sons'. I raise my eyebrows and turn to my brother, who looks apologetic. I'm not surprised. He's probably getting a mechanical exoskeleton for Christmas.

First published on vivalewes.com 15th November 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

When age goes out the window

"Age is just a number". That's a phrase much used by my mother, particularly when deflecting unwanted questions about her birthday. Mind you, I think I've picked up some of the attitude. I'm certainly not happy about getting older. This dissatisfaction isn't usually obvious until I'm involved in some kind of activity that requires me to be categorised. Surveys (between 18 and 65, since you ask), holidays (not eligible for Saga discounts yet), pubs (go on, ask me if I’ve got any I.D.), car insurance (too old to be a boy racer) and so on. This week I've added parenthood to my list of annoying age-related assumptions... but first I'd like to clarify something. I'm not a parent. My lovely wife was already equipped with children and cats when we met, which has excused me from all manner of toilet training. It has, however, resulted in me becoming a step-father.

And there I go. I've been placed in an age bracket. People are picturing me walking through Lewes with one of those three-wheeled buggies and a cat on my shoulder. Nope, that's not me. Besides, the story I want to tell involves a step-daughter locking herself out of her home. That puts me in a different demographic, doesn't it?

Anyway, the event was the highlight of my week, so I shall tell my tale whilst attempting to maintain an illusion of agelessness.

A few days ago the phone rang at home. I didn't rush to answer it because I don't own any children or cats, not because I wasn't feeling especially spritely. It was the aforementioned step-youngster, somewhat concerned because she was locked out and her dinner was locked in. There was a little window open at the side of the house but neither she nor her boyfriend could reach in to open a larger window. Under other circumstances they'd have been pleased with the level of security. Not that night. We assembled a crack team of housebreakers - me, wife, resident teenager - and set off down the road with the tools of our newly-adopted trade. I had a small hammer and two screwdrivers, mainly because I'd once seen someone steal a car on The Bill with similar equipment. My wife had a wire coat hanger. Her son was in charge of the ladder.

On arrival my wife dismantled the coat hanger and started fishing through the letter box. The teenager held his ladder as nonchalantly as possible.

I climbed the ladder, reached in, unlocked the large window, realised I couldn't get back out without displacing my sternum on the latch, wriggled in through the little window and exited via the front door whilst avoiding the coat hanger. Cue applause.

I’m told this is the sort of thing that parents are expected to do. But an old chap couldn't have done that, could he?

First published on vivalewes.com 1st November 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

Everyone wants a pizza the action

I didn't study economics at college. Maths, physics and chemistry were my chosen subjects. All very logical. I'd walk through the corridors wearing my acid-spotted lab coat and carrying a copy of New Scientist, imagining I looked simultaneously studious and exciting. Probably contravening assorted safety recommendations as well. But I did have friends who studied economics. I particularly remember one of my contemporaries emerging shell-shocked from an A-level economics class. The tutor, having prepared his class for their exams, had just admitted that college-level economics didn't really work in the real world. That reassured me I'd made the right choice. Not only was physics consistent outside the classroom but 'Power equals Current times Voltage' still comes in handy for choosing a replacement fuse.

The reality of local economics - microeconomics, I think my student friend would have called it - struck me this week when I popped up to the shops. First, the bad news. The greengrocer's is closed and the fish & chip shop has been campaigning against the arrival of a pizza retailer. Now the good news. The butcher's started selling nice-looking veg and there's a pizza shop coming.

A sign in the greengrocer’s window says "Due to local competition we will no longer be trading". The words 'local competition' are underlined, just in case anyone misses the point. I’m not sure I’d be so willing to admit that other people were doing a better job than me. This seems as implausible as Michael Schumacher announcing "I'm slower than I used to be but was hoping the younger guys would let me overtake them occasionally".

The situation at the fish & chip shop is equally confused. Last time I was there, a group of young lads almost signed the anti-pizza petition before they realised it wasn't a campaign to encourage Domino's into the village. The chippy is happy with the Indian restaurant and the bakery but doesn’t want another outlet offering takeaway food. Apparently that’s the last straw. (Probably a cheese straw if the bakery’s involved).

I know, I know, I'm oversimplifying. The opening of a pizza franchise may see enough mopeds on our streets to look like a remake of Quadrophenia. But complaints against someone adding variety?  As my physics-loving role model from Star Trek might declare, that’s illogical.

Maybe that's what the college lecturer meant when he said A-level economics didn't work in the real world. Maybe it’s the theoretical version that makes much more sense. It certainly does to me. Mind you, I also think pizza and chips sounds rather appealing.

First published on vivalewes.com 18th October 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

The CSI Effect

"Funny people live in Ringmer", opines my mother from the safety of West Sussex. She seems to have forgotten I've chosen to make my home here. I shrug, a gesture that's completely lost down the telephone line.

Mum isn't simply spraying slander but is commenting on the errant local teacher who's recently been making headlines. During the search for this man and his teenage charge, a criminologist was interviewed about the possible techniques being used by the police.

Although detectives could try to locate fugitives through mobile phones and credit card usage, he said most people were aware of this due to the 'CSI Effect' - and therefore anyone looking to avoid discovery would try not to use either. What he didn't mention was that the CSI Effect is rooted in fantasy.

CSI, an abbreviation for Crime Scene Investigation, is one of my guilty pleasures. It's an American TV drama that focuses on the high-tech processes used to solve crimes; I like to think of it as Quincy for the 21st century. All that's missing is Jack Klugman and his hearse. However, CSI is as much science fiction as it is science fact. Real forensic science isn't as slick as those technicians on television might suggest. But we're all falling for it.

I'm reminded of Dallas, the 1980s TV series that's recently returned to our screens. When I watched the original episodes in the innocence of my youth, I really thought adults behaved like those caricatures. Greed, lying, affairs... that was normal, right? Wrong, of course. Dallas is no more a realistic portrayal of the oil and cattle ranching businesses than CSI echoes Saturday night at Lewes police station. You’ll also notice there's no Dallas Effect, with home-owners keeping a couple of Friesians in the garden and drilling an exploratory bore-hole by the shed. No-one ever went into medicine because they thought it would be like The Singing Detective. Six Feet Under was never seen as an exposé of the funeral trade. Yet we have a CSI Effect, where everyone's an expert in fictional criminology.

Mind you, if those transgressing the law believe in the CSI Effect, there's nothing to worry about. Criminals who fear being tracked will leave their mobile phones at home, never to receive the warning text message that says "COPS R ON UR TAIL". They'll run out of money as they flee justice. And they'll sell their guard dogs for fear of being identified via canine DNA.

Anyway, since Dallas I'm no longer taken in by television dramas. In fact, work and domestic chores leave little time for TV watching these days.

Talking of which, our resident teenager has just attracted my attention. One of our cats has left a dead mouse on the doorstep. I carefully draw a chalk outline round its tiny corpse and reach for my chemistry set.

First published on vivalewes.com 4th October 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

Kate Middleton and the iPhone 5

I need to finish a piece of work in the next couple of hours. I’m working from home, which means I’m already being disrupted by the ongoing remodelling of our kitchen and the occasional disappearance of mains electricity as part of that process.

Worse still, having no electrical power cuts my internet connection off. Our resident teenager is taking it particularly hard. “It’s like the end of the world”, he says through mouthfuls of sausage roll. Eating is the only offline activity he can think of at the moment.

However, this cloud has a silver lining. Losing my internet connection creates fewer distractions.

Distractions like checking Google for the latest news. It tells me that Kate Middleton and the new iPhone 5 are currently trending. This apparently means they’re both immensely important to many people.

The most obvious difference between the iPhone 5 and Apple’s previous phone is that the updated device has a larger screen. There’s more on display than before, you might say.

The Duchess of Cambridge is in the headlines for a similar reason.

Now, some people have suggested the Duchess shouldn’t have been sunbathing topless in a private garden. They think she should cover herself at all times just in case she’s seen en deshabille by someone who isn’t Prince William. Maybe a thin layer of gold paint would suffice, rather like an Olympic letter box or the unfortunate Jill Masterson in ‘Goldfinger’.

Others say it’s an invasion of privacy, none of our business and is no more in the public interest than hiding a webcam in George Osborne’s bathroom or publishing Hannah Cockroft’s tax return. They say – and I’m in agreement with this group of people – that being famous doesn’t automatically make you a contestant in a ‘reality TV’ competition.

The truth is that neither Kate nor the new iPhone is remotely important in the grand scheme of things. Yes, the bigger issues of security, privacy, technology and communication are worth talking about… but getting excessively excited about a mobile phone and a half-naked woman? Not unless you’re a 14-year-old boy.

If the iPhone 5 offered time-travel, it would be worth discussing at length. If the photos of Kate had revealed the inner workings of a cyborg, newspapers could make a case for publishing them.

But these current reports are only about increasing sales, not about changing the world.

Anyway, that’s why I’m rather pleased the plasterer has switched off the electricity. It means I can get on with my work and not have this kind of trivia on my mind. Which, of course, it isn’t.

Right. Where was I?

First published on vivalewes.com 20th September 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

A science-fiction double-feature

In the past week there have been two significant events in my life. I have lost my kitchen and discovered the new 'Total Recall' film. Curiously, both are connected.

Total Recall, as you may know, began life in 1966 as a short story by Philip K Dick. The original story tailed off into complete fantasy, probably influenced by the author’s preferred medication. A couple of decades ago it became an action-packed science fiction adventure starring Arnold Schwarzenegger - and now it's been remade with Colin Farrell acting out a different plot. Arnie's movie asked whether our hero was confused by an 'artificial memory' he'd chosen as an alternative to a proper holiday. And Colin Farrell's story has many a nod to the earlier film while following a number of new secret-agent story elements. (Yes, chaps, there really is a woman with three chests in the new film - and not in the same sense as Portia in 'The Merchant of Venice').

I rather enjoyed the film once I'd realised it was neither a remake nor a brand new concept. You could say it was 'inspired by' the original version, not unlike the new VW Beetle, a mock-Tudor executive home or a microwave lasagne.

Anyway, one of the reasons we had a family night out at the pictures in Uckfield on Saturday was because our lounge is currently stuffed with the former contents of our old kitchen. We're mid-way through having a new kitchen fitted.

The previous kitchen had seen better days... and many of them, too. It had been given a facelift in the 1990s, which helped to explain the odd combination of brushed chrome and flaky varnish. Fortunately, we're blessed with a decent kitchen designer and supplier in Ringmer.

First, of course, the old kitchen needs to be removed. That's why we have breakfast cereal balanced on the TV in the lounge. That's also why there's a pile of old kitchen units in the back garden, guarded by a couple of puzzled cats who haven't quite worked out where their food has moved to. For several days the kitchen area looked distressingly empty and tatty. Previously-inaccessible cobwebs were revealed. The fitter's pencil marks on the wall gave the impression of a graffiti lesson for infants.

Stage two is now underway as the new kitchen units arrive. But d’you know what? It all seems rather familiar. Yes, it's clean and shiny and 21st-century but... well... you can't help wondering whether you should have just left it alone. Whether a quick wipe round with a damp cloth would have saved all that work. Let's face it, the important stuff is still roughly in the same place.

All of which has me speculating whether Colin Farrell thinks the same about his film.

More importantly, I'm also wondering if that embedded technology from the film will ever make it into real life. Mr Farrell's character had a mobile phone implanted under the skin of his hand. Right now, I'd be very happy with a hotplate.

First published on vivalewes.com 13th September 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

Somewhere beyond the sea

He's back. The quick-witted guy with the shaven head and a talent for fixing problems. A snappy dresser who attracts many women yet rarely notices the effect he has. Someone who frequently irritates his superiors but makes friends nearly everywhere he travels.

Sadly that's not a description of me, although I’ll admit we do have a few traits in common. I'm talking about the ever-impressive Italian detective Inspector Montalbano, who's just started a new series on BBC4.

I reckon the main difference between us is that Montalbano avoids my fondness for inappropriate humour that can ruin any moment. No-one really wants a laughing policeman.

Anyway, Commissario Salvo Montalbano works in the fictional Sicilian town of Vigata; a place that seems to be the perfect holiday destination. And the more I think about it, the more Vigata seems to be rather like Lewes.

Vigata - or perhaps its real-world location Porto Empedocle - is a long-established town with plenty of history, high-quality restaurants and tourists. It's acclaimed for its writers and for a colourful annual parade with a religious theme. You’ll even find a decent firework display.

The two towns could almost be twinned if it wasn’t for the complaints you’d hear across the English Channel from Blois and Waldshut-Tiengen.

Yes, Lewes and Vigata certainly share a great deal of culture and tradition. But one of the things they also share is my label of ‘tourist destination’ rather than ‘potential home’.

I'd love to visit but I really don’t think I want to live there. Aside from the constant trek of sight-seeing visitors past your front door, there's a somewhat disconcertingly heavy police presence, there’s the invariable challenge of trying to fit in with the local community - and all this set against the persistent background of Mafia activity.

I imagine things are much the same in Italy.

Incidentally, my wife finds Montalbano as compelling as I do, although not for all the same reasons. I noticed she wasn't as distressed as I was when Montalbano's swimming trunks fell off in the most recent show. Still, she says I should be reassured that Salvo and I have a similar haircut.

In fact, she’s actively encouraging the similarities. As we finish our arancini and drain a glass of prosecco, my wife poses a question. "Can you speak with an Italian accent?", she asks, seductively.

"Corsican", I reply.

First published on vivalewes.com 6th September 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

Where everybody knows your name

"Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got."

You probably recognise those words from the song that announced every episode of 'Cheers' on TV. It was set in a Chicago bar "where everybody knows your name and they're always glad you came".

Much like my home in Ringmer, I reckon. And not like the neighbouring town of Lewes.

Yes, I’m continuing my campaign to praise the advantages of Ringmer over Lewes.

I'm not saying Lewes is unfriendly. Given the volume of tourists the town sees, most retailers are innately sociable. Customers are greeted with a friendly smile. Even the bus driver is happy to change a £5 note (although trying to pay with Lewes Pounds didn’t go down so well).

But there's something missing. The truly personal touch.

I'm not just talking about the barman at my local pub offering to pull me a pint of Harveys whenever I walk in. That could be a lucky guess... or a shrewd marketing move.

It's the sense of community.

Up here in Ringmer, you feel as though you belong to the place. That doesn’t mean everyone agrees with everyone else – the Village Hall extension appeal is a good example of local discord, as is the rumoured arrival of a pizza franchise – but there’s an atmosphere of us all being in it together. Whatever it is.

Lewes seems a bit too big for that. Pubs, clubs and societies may have loyal memberships but I can’t imagine walking through the town and having the same sense of belonging that tends to happen with a village.

There is, however, a downside to all this familiarity.

My mother was brought up in a little Sussex village that wasn’t much bigger than the bar in ‘Cheers’. All the residents knew each other. And all the residents knew about each other.

One of the villagers had a child. That child was called... actually, I don’t know his real name. You see, as a toddler he had a tendency to take his clothes off and wander outside the garden into the street.

No harm done, you might say. A tight-knit community. Gentler times. All this is true.

However, because of his habit, the child was given a nickname. Let’s say that nickname was ‘Nudie’.

A couple of years ago, mum and I drove through the village where she grew up. We passed a middle-aged man walking uphill.

“Oh look”, she said. “It’s Nudie”.

At least he was fully dressed.

First published on vivalewes.com 30th August 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

Turtle recall

My mother phones from over the border in West Sussex. “I’m taking the tortoise to the vet”, she tells me. “One eye looks a bit cloudy and he can't find his food very well.”

Given that mum’s been treating the old chap to M&S salad, his inability to locate it is particularly worrying.

This, incidentally, is not my tortoise. Technically it’s not even my mother’s tortoise. He’s called Fred and was given to my brother as a childhood pet some decades ago. His equally-aged companion Susie is my tortoise but both are very much in mum’s care. I think it’s her way of guaranteeing I call round every so often. You don’t get the same longevity with a hamster.

“All very interesting”, I hear you saying, “but what does this have to do with your ongoing campaign to prove Ringmer better than Lewes?”

Well, mum’s phone call reminded me of a famous Ringmer citizen.

Take a look at the village sign as you escape from Lewes into Ringmer and you’ll see it features a tortoise. Not just any tortoise. No, that tortoise is Timothy Snooke.

Lewes, I'll grant you, has seen many illustrious residents. But while Lewesians speak reverently of Thomas Paine and Richard Russell, it’s Timothy who made more of a difference... especially when you consider the reptile had neither the power of speech nor the ability to write. Let me explain.

The story begins when naturalist Gilbert White visited his aunt, Rebecca Snooke, in Ringmer during the late 18th century. Mrs Snooke owned a female tortoise called Timothy. (Don’t get distracted by the gender issue; apparently it’s an easy mistake to make if you’re not a tortoise).

The Reverend White – for the naturalist was a curate – wrote about his local environment, including his visits to see Timothy, and later published these records in a book entitled ‘The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne’. It’s a study of British plants and creatures, with much of it focussing on questions of bird migration and hibernation.

Hang on a moment. Hibernation?  Are you thinking what I’m thinking?  I reckon Timothy’s wintertime behaviour influenced Gilbert's ideas. She’s a tortoise that changed the course of scientific research.

But that’s not all. Gilbert White describes her by using prose that transforms his book into a classic of English literature. “It hobbles towards its benefactress with awkward alacrity”, he notes. A lovely turn of phrase.

In fact, Timothy was such an influential figure that Rev White adopted her when his aunt died. The tortoise was taken on an 80-mile carriage ride to live with him in Hampshire – an early example of domestic pets being permitted on public transport.

She’s a hero of naturalism. A literary muse. A pioneering polymath.

Thomas Paine helped found America. Richard Russell placed Brighton on the tourist trail.

But I’d say their achievements pale into insignificance when compared with the impact of Ringmer’s renowned reptilian resident.

After all, neither of those two citizens achieved anything while buried in a garden.

First published on vivalewes.com 2nd August 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

The state of independence

Oh Lewes, how visitors surge along your cobbled streets for a spot of recreational shopping. How those visitors delight at your independent shops. And yet...

And yet those independent shops are under increasing commercial pressures, with more and more 'big name' brands appearing where a sole trader was before. Eventually every other shop will be owned by a coffee chain and the rest will sell some kind of stylish clothing for an active lifestyle. Probably an active lifestyle that involves dropping those clothes off at the dry cleaners because otherwise they'd dissolve in your washing machine.

Here in Ringmer, we don't have those problems. Not at the moment, anyway.

Unlike Lewes, we are still a true haven for independent retailers. In a single parade of shops (equipped with a paved precinct and handy points for securing a dog/bicycle) we can offer you a greengrocer and florist, a bakery, a butcher, a vet, an Indian restaurant, a fish & chip shop, a hairdresser, an off-licence and a pet supplies shop. There's also an estate agent, a bank and a convenience shop with post office but they're all parts of larger organisations so I won't count them for now. That's before you search out the pubs (two or three, depending on where you draw village boundaries), the garage and the units on the trading estates elsewhere in the village.

But the pièce de résistance is Middletons. Or, to use its full name, Middletons of Ringmer. It's a haberdashery.

If you put Mrs Middleton and her wares in a little bay-windowed shop on Lewes High Street, you wouldn't be able to move for squealing tourists taking photos of buttons and ribbons.

Mind you, the shop sells more than just sewing kit. There's also a nice line in greetings cards, some children’s toys and an assortment of advertisements on postcards in the window. Kittens for sale, lawnmower servicing, that kind of thing.

You're going to tell me that Lewes has similar needlecraft shops. I know.

But they don't quite have the charm of our local haberdasher's shop. Or the slight incongruity. Well, it's not like every village really needs one.

If I was thinking of opening a shop, I'd be estimating footfall and looking for an unexploited niche. That's just one of the reasons I'd not make a good independent shopkeeper.

The trick, it seems, is a combination of caring passionately about what you do, trying to meet every customer's desire and not giving a stuff about what anyone else thinks.

And I reckon living in a village gives you an advantage. After all, you've already chosen to stay away from the crowds.

So, as I continue to demonstrate, Lewes is a great place to visit but Ringmer is the right place to live. It demonstrates true independence and has everything you could possibly need.

Well, almost everything. If there's anything else you want, you can always knit it. I know the perfect shop to buy some wool.

First published on vivalewes.com 26th July 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

The visitors who carry a torch for Lewes

Earwig Corner – the number one insect-themed road junction on the A26 – hosted the Olympic Torch Relay on Tuesday this week.

I wandered down from my home in Ringmer and saw the entire cavalcade assemble on the edge of Lewes before it set off in two awkward half-convoys. In the midst of the police motorcycles and sponsored trucks was a lone runner clutching an eBay-ready Olympic torch.

To be honest, I was rather hoping that the assorted bonfire societies of Lewes had planned a guerrilla response in the style of Crocodile Dundee’s much-quoted knife scene. “Call that a torch parade?”, someone would shout as hundreds of paraffin-soaked wooden stakes were raised to the skies. “No, THIS is a torch parade”. A giant papier-mâché effigy of Wenlock the mascot would then be burned on the playing field behind Tesco.

Sadly, that remained a mere fantasy.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not joining the Cynical Olympiad that seems to be accompanying the 2012 games. This column isn't the place for such cynicism. It's the place where I extol the benefits of not living in Lewes while singing the town’s praises.

And Tuesday was the perfect example of Lewesians getting a bit of a raw deal while the rest of the world looked on.

Never mind the road closures. Never mind the transport disruption. Never mind some businesses wondering where on earth all the customers had gone.

No, Tuesday was all about visitors. Through a curious quirk of scheduling there weren’t even any Lewes residents carrying the torch through their home town.

Also notable was the way some of these visitors dressed. Not the torchbearers. The tourists.

It’s a curious thing but we Brits really seem to choose dramatically different clothes when we’re on holiday, even when our destination isn’t that far away and our lifestyle hasn’t changed. Suddenly we’re wearing storm-proof cagoules. Camouflage shorts. Rugged sandals. Sarongs. Just for a trip to the shops.

All were on display as the torch passed through, making the streets of Lewes look rather like a film set. Perhaps ‘Robinson Crusoe in the 25th century.’ Office managers in suits standing next to folk wearing flip-flops. Climbing boots alongside stilettos.

Yet when I come to Lewes, I'm a visitor too. Which prompts a question: is it wrong to turn up in my regular clothes when I visit Lewes?  Would it be better if I identified myself by wearing three-quarter length shorts and eating an ice cream?  Or should all tourists be forced to carry a flaming torch?

Except on 5th November, obviously.

First published on vivalewes.com 19th July 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

East of Earwig

Last week I introduced the painful (to some) and painfully obvious (to me) concept that Lewes was best enjoyed by those living outside it.

I’d now like to expand my theory.

If I drive into Lewes, I can take advantage of three hours’ free parking at Tesco. That’s plenty enough time for a spot of shopping, a coffee, an almond croissant and a wander round the antique shops looking for any bargain that John Henty has missed. Yet if I lived in Lewes I’d need to check my local Controlled Parking Zone, buy a permit and then try to find a space within walking distance of my house. Chances are I’d end up with a folding bicycle in the boot of the car.

Not that I’m driving much at the moment. You see, I sold my car a couple of months ago – and that means I’m reliant on the number 28 bus.

Public transport is perfect for we out-of-towners. I accept that Lewesians may not want double-deckers hanging around outside Waitrose, thundering up the High Street and squeezing through the bottleneck. However, the system works nicely for the rest of us.

A £3 return offers door-to-door service from Ringmer to my chosen Lewes destination. That’s the same as just 90 minutes on-street parking but without the worry that someone might knock my door mirror off as they drive past. If I’m late I simply wait until the next bus and won’t be charged £50 for the privilege of peeling a plastic-wrapped penalty ticket off my windscreen.

Better still, as part of my bus trip I can claim a free newspaper. Admittedly it’s only ever the Metro, which is rather like a cut-down Daily Mail, but it’s still a free newspaper. You’ll be surprised how long you can sit in Caffe Nero if your empty coffee cup is hidden behind the showbiz section.

My only complaint about buses is the passengers. No, not you, sir. And not you, madam. It’s the others.

The woman who alternately sings and curses for no apparent reason. The guy wearing open-backed headphones who’s listening to an atonal cymbal symphony. The child who thinks kicking the back of my seat is more entertaining than Rastamouse.

What troubles me most is where they’re from. Surely they’re not Ringmer residents heading into Lewes? They must be Lewes people going home after visiting their country cousins.

I really hope that’s the case. Because if not, I might need to find somewhere to live at the other end of the bus route.

First published on vivalewes.com 12th July 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

East of Earwig

Look, I have a confession to make. I'm not like the rest of you. I'm from the wrong side of town. In fact, I'm not from town at all. I live three miles north-east in the village of Ringmer, where only the bravest of bus drivers venture.

Here's another confession. I like it here. And I don't want to join you down there on the flood plain, thank you all the same.

Now, this is probably the point where you dismiss my introduction as the hyperbolic ramblings of an anti-Lewes troll. But you're wrong.

You see, I have a theory. Here it is.

Bridge's Lewesian theory: all the good bits of Lewes are available to me without living there.

It has a companion theory that goes like this: all the bad bits of Lewes are only really suffered by people who live there.

Let me demonstrate with the following example. Harveys beer. Wonderful stuff. But I don't need to stand by the Argos car park to enjoy a pint in the sun. I can walk to The Anchor in Ringmer and sit in the garden. (Heck, I can cross the road with my pint and watch cricket on the green as long as I take the glass back and no-one ever finds out).

Fair enough, you may say, but what about Bill's cafe? Well, my Lewes friend, there's no priority queue for residents. Waving your council tax bill doesn't get you a table any quicker. You locals suffer the gastro-tourists, I walk in for a sausage sandwich and a coffee when they've gone. Besides, given the company's recent expansion, I reckon there'll be a Ringmer branch of Bill's by 2014. (Not that we desperately need one, for we have the Jack & Jill bakery: home of the Jack & Jill bun - fruit, icing and jam combined. You won't find that in the Collison collection).

May I also point out that parking's free in Ringmer and our house prices are more affordable than yours?

People of Lewes, escape those knee-trembling hills and head for the countryside. You know it makes sense.

Just don’t come looking for me when you arrive here. You'll probably find me in Laporte's - or in Steamer Trading - or Octave music - or perhaps even visiting an estate agent. Being from the wrong side of town doesn't mean I don't have aspirations.

First published on vivalewes.com 5th July 2012: http://vivalewes.com/