It’s not about the money, money, money

“The true meaning of Christmas”, sings musician and comedian Mitch Benn, “is to eat until it hurts, then drink until it don’t hurt anymore”. I smile each time I think of the words. A little humour makes it easier to survive the merchandising mayhem on our streets, I reckon. The artist Grayson Perry recently talked about protecting his creative spirit with a shield of jaded irony and a sword of cynicism. That sounds like the kind of armour I need for the festive season.

Of course, life wasn’t always non-stop satire. It seems only a few years ago that every church was packed during Midnight Mass. Families would reunite from across the country for dinner on December 25th. Co-workers would put disagreements aside before they left for their Christmas break. But look closer and you’ll see this wasn’t about religion. It was about being together. Community, you might say. A significant number of those Christmas Eve churchgoers had tiptoed into the back of the building with their mates on the way home from the pub. Dry turkey with over-boiled sprouts wasn’t really anyone’s favourite meal but was a great excuse to meet up. And getting your job done is so much simpler if colleagues are actually helping. Besides, that annoying bloke from I.T. may have picked your name on the Secret Santa list.

All this came to mind when Lewes held its late-night shopping evening at the beginning of December. If you listen to the grouches – and I’ll admit I’ve channelled a bit of grouchiness in my time – you’ll soon be convinced that Christmas is nothing but a sales opportunity. TV ads show John the hare buying an alarm clock for Lewis the bear. Privatised postal workers sing of their love for parcels. But that’s not what I saw in town. Instead, I found shops giving away chocolates and mince pies. Friendly faces encouraged me to taste mulled wine and roast chestnuts. I noticed families chatting in restaurants rather than sitting silently in front of the TV. I heard carols, I heard bell-ringing, I heard laughter. I won’t argue that Christmas seemed to have more of a religious theme in the past – and yes, today it appears to have more of a retail focus. But when you rub away the veneer you’ll find the underlying sentiment hasn’t changed. It’s still about people. About caring for each other. And perhaps it’s about a spot of over-indulgence, too.

First published on vivalewes.com 12th December 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/its-not-about-the-money-money-money/

Are we there yet?

"Christmas starts earlier every year". That's become a familiar cry from frazzled parents who have used their entire stock of "wait and see", "Santa only brings presents if you're good" and "ask your father/mother/grandparents" tactics well before 25th December. Certainly we're in the middle of a commercial frenzy at the moment, with TV advertisements pulling at your heartstrings like a tinsel-clad Geoff Capes. But is Christmas really starting earlier?

When I was a teenager, I had a Saturday job working in a toy shop. I was in the male-dominated department that dealt with Airfix kits, Hornby railways, model cars and Star Wars figures. I'd demonstrate electric trains by touching a 9-volt battery against their wheels, which I believed made me look like a worthy adversary to Magneto in the X-Men comics. Come and worship, youngsters. Our Christmas season started in November every year, just as soon as my colleagues round the corner had sold their last box of fireworks. That didn't seem too early, particularly as there'd often be a point when desperate customers needed to wait a week or two for the next delivery of ‘Simon’ from MB Games. (Batteries not included). We wouldn't tape tinsel to the cash registers until around four weeks before the big day but there was no doubting the yuletide anticipation.

Some years later I found myself working in a mobile phone shop. At this point I'd worked out that I wasn't much of a sales person but - much like my toy retailing days - rather enjoyed playing with the products. Once again, our Christmas season kicked off at the beginning of November. Mobile phones were relatively new, very exciting and became the must-have festive gift for 1995. We very literally couldn't get enough. Soon, promotion beckoned... or perhaps the regional manager was desperate to get a real salesman running one of his biggest shops. Either way, I ended up in head office where Christmas planning started as summer ended. By the time real Christmas arrived, I'd been looking at prototype cardboard decorations and seasonal puns for the past three months.

So I don't think that Christmas is starting much earlier. I reckon there's always been a holiday build-up for quite a few weeks. It's even happening here in Ringmer, with various events taking place during November and chocolate advent calendars arriving in the convenience shop. But I think what's changed is that every aspect of retailing is now Christmas-related. It's not just the must-have gifts that are being decked with boughs of holly. It's everything. Anything you're buying for yourself is "stocking up for Christmas", according to advertisers. Anything you're buying for someone else is a potential Christmas present. Headache tablets, puncture repair kits and insulating tape are for Christmas emergencies. Even a cup of coffee is now served in a merry old bowl with a slug of eggnog-flavoured syrup lurking at the bottom and a dollop of cream floating on top.

But what can we do?  Well, I think Tesco has the answer. It sells hot cross buns all year round without any sight of a biblical reference or an Easter bunny. We should demand the same of yule logs, cranberry & brie vol-au-vents, figgy puddings and tinned shortbread biscuits. These should be available every day, from January to December. That way we can enjoy a proper Christmas at the proper time of year without all this marketing fuss.

First published on vivalewes.com 28th November 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/category/east-of-earwig/

There’s no place like moan

I've recently been reminded of my last day at middle school when, as a budding 11-year-old documentary maker, I borrowed dad's cassette tape recorder and asked my teacher to speak some words of wisdom that I could remember him by. "Never trouble trouble 'til trouble troubles you", said Mr Kelly. I recall the moment well, even though my documentary-making career never really took off and I can't find the tape any more. When I think about it, those words could almost be the family motto. If mother had a coat of arms mounted on the wall in place of the kitchen clock, that phrase would be neatly lettered in Latin above a golden shield held by two Jack Russells Rampant.

Another essential family expression is 'mustn't grumble'. This one, unlike the former, isn't to be taken literally. On the contrary, it's usually only added after a minor complaint. "That Dirty Biker should never have been allowed on Strictly. Still, mustn't grumble." Yes, mum’s a fan of the BBC's Strictly Come Dancing despite not always knowing who everyone is. It's watched enthusiastically with notes taken for reference later. But I digress. Sometimes a longer story will involve the occasional use of “well, that was alright” (when it clearly wasn’t alright) to build tension until the conclusion is reached. “I couldn’t find a parking space at first but then somebody moved – well, that was alright – and then the dentist was late back from lunch. Still, mustn’t grumble.”

However, my favourite is ‘it won’t kill you’. Admittedly it’s rarely used these days but I’d hear this fairly regularly as a child. Splinters removed with needles, food that was dropped on the floor and then rinsed under the tap, foul-tasting medicine... all were heralded with “don’t fuss, it won’t kill you.” And, d’you know what? Mum was absolutely right. I am living proof that none of those things my mother reassured me about were deadly. Of course, that’s not to say they weren’t deeply unpleasant. Still, mustn’t grumble.

First published on vivalewes.com 14th November 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/theres-no-place-like-moan/

The wait of responsibility

My mother-in-law has a folding walking stick that snaps together like a sniper's rifle. I'm sure she practices assembling it in the dark because the movement is fluid, swift and unerringly accurate. Either that or one of her previous jobs was covered by the Official Secrets Act. Sadly there's little more I can tell you about my in-laws because I enjoy having them around, which rules out the opportunity for too much comic exaggeration.

Yes, I've been on my best behaviour this week. There's been something of a family reunion with my wife's relatives and her children all variously meeting up here in Ringmer. It was a bit of a step-family reunion for me because - as I've mentioned before - my wife was already equipped with children and cats when we met. This meant I didn't need to trouble myself with the unpleasantness of toilet training for any of the aforementioned creatures. It meant I avoided that supposedly heart-warming stage when babies morph from Winston Churchill clones into real human beings. And it meant I've never changed a nappy.

Yet responsibility has been thrust upon me in the past few days. No, it's not the step-children. They have no need for a fake father figure and I have no desire to be called anything other than my given name. It's not the rest of my wife's family; in fact it's not a relation in any sense. We've volunteered for a spot of dog walking while a couple of friends in the village are away. I say 'we' but really mean 'me'. Anyway, I've been strolling around with a little chap who was supplied with an extending lead and a handful of small black bags. It's surprising how much friendlier Ringmer is if you have a dog. Barely a person passes me without a smile or a 'hello'. It could be my four-legged friend that's attracting all the attention but I'm basking in it regardless. We walk through the village engaged in non-stop conversation with each other. Admittedly it's fairly basic stuff - I'm all "who's a good boy?" and he's simply smiling back at me - but it's great fun.

And at some point during our evening constitutional, he'll strike a pose and I'll prepare one of those black bags to clear up his doggy gift. As I walk home with a dog lead in one hand and a disconcertingly warm bag in the other, I feel surprisingly happy. Maybe all this responsibility is good for me. Or perhaps I'm just relieved that dogs don't wear nappies.

First published on vivalewes.com 1st November 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/the-wait-of-responsibility/

Twin piques

A couple of months ago Switzerland was attacked by an invading force from the east of France. Not in reality, you'll be relieved to hear, but as part of a training exercise for the Swiss army. This would be an excellent opportunity for me to joke about the troops removing stones from their horses' hooves with Swiss Army Knives... but I won't. You see, I've just checked my own penknife and it doesn't have that multipurpose fold-out spike. Instead there's a ballpoint pen, a nail file and a pair of scissors alongside the various blades, which suggests it's more of a Swiss Army Administrative Support Tool. Or perhaps it suggests I'm no Ray Mears.

Anyway, these military manoeuvres got me thinking. The wargame imagined that an economic crisis had broken France up, prompting one region to invade in a search for 'stolen money'. But what if the same happened in East Sussex?   What if a mercenary force from Lewes tried to seize the strategic assets of Ringmer?

No, seriously. Our location and natural resources could make us an economic threat. Tired of drinking coffee and eating cup cakes, Lewesians might want to raid Ringmer's allotments for fresh fruit and vegetables. When Harveys best bitter became too familiar, the Lewes warriors would be heading for Turners brewery on the B2192. And we've got an undefended pond, too.

We villagers would be ready, naturally. The first wave of attackers would be repelled by frenzied geese from the Raystede sanctuary, where they'd have been readied with a special sugary diet of stale doughnuts. Next, the gin-drinkers of Ringmer would use their collection of hedgerow-harvested sloes to pelt the incoming force. Pity the poor soldier that inadvertently swallowed one. And if any pecked, bruised, dry-mouthed fighters remained, we'd switch the Glyndebourne wind turbine into reverse and blow them down the road.

Of course, all this conflict could be avoided with negotiations and some friendly cross-border arrangements. Earlier this month Lewes celebrated its twin town partnership with Waldshut-Tiengen by staging two days of entertainment... but I'd like to suggest a new sibling that's closer to home. A sibling with untested military might. One with shared interests but a different demographic. Yes, I’m thinking of Ringmer. So, come on, Lewes - it's time for a twinning ceremony. You provide the beer and the organic salad. And we'll promise not to invade.

First published on vivalewes.com 17th October 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/twin-piques/

Fair and square dancing

My childhood was predominantly fictional. I spent much of the time with my nose in books, many of them sci-fi. This led me to the world of Ray Bradbury, whose stories told of travelling fairs with fantastical sideshows. Tattooed torsos. Halls of Mirrors. Running away to join the carnival. I don't mind admitting I was a little scared, even though my experience of fairs had been limited to the 'win a goldfish in a bag' variety. As an adult, I discovered a novel by Amanda Davis called 'Wonder When You'll Miss Me'. Again there was a travelling fair, there was running away and there was an element of other-worldliness. I read it with the same apprehension and excitement I'd previously reserved for Mr Bradbury.

The recent arrival of the fair in Ringmer reawakened all these memories. Although our resident teenager reckons he's now too old for bumper cars (this is untrue; the only limit is whether you can squeeze your bottom into the seat), I couldn't help making a detour past the village green where the fair was. There were a few surprises. As well as candy floss and those death-defying and gravity-enhancing rides that force all your organs into the space usually occupied by your lungs, there were bouncy castles. Yes, bouncy castles. I can't imagine many people having a dream of running off to inflate bouncy castles every night. Where was Lydia, the tattooed lady?

Probably at the barn dance with her children. That's where I was. If Ringmer were a fictional village in a soap opera, the coincidence of the fair arriving and a barn dance taking place would seem implausible. But that's how we roll.

I reckon about a hundred people turned up to raise funds for one of the local schools. Unlike lesser events, this one was held in a real barn, served a real hog roast at half-time and had a real band. The caller was identified by Mrs B as a former music teacher - "the girls were a bit scared of her at school" - and she'd clearly not lost any of that authority. When she said "dance", you danced.

Still, it was all good fun. Even I enjoyed a do-si-do - and I have two self-conscious tone-deaf left feet.

As we walked home from the hoedown, the sound of pop music playing at the fair drifted towards us. From Billy Ray Cyrus to Miley Cyrus, I thought. I wondered about a last-minute dodgem car ride but decided my last pint of Harveys had made that unadvisable. Anyway, I didn't want to run away and join the fair anymore. I wanted to join a barn dance band instead.

First published on vivalewes.com 3rd October 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/fair-and-square-dancing/

Going back to my routes

Certain aspects of holidays remained a complete mystery to me when I was a child. One such mystery was those 'Holiday Route' road signs - a yellow rectangle containing the letters HR in black - that often marked part of our journey to the exotic lands of Devon and North Wales. I could never work out exactly when or why dad was following them. Their only purpose seemed to be creating a procession of slow-moving traffic for locals to avoid.

Today, as an adult and a driver, I'm none the wiser. These days you hardly see HR signs, anyway. Everyone's on the motorway with their sat-nav and no-one's sitting in the passenger seat of a Mini Traveller with an AA guidebook.

What I did understand as a child (and still understand today) was the holiday appeal of Lewes. I spent my 13th birthday in the town, celebrating by taking pictures of the castle and the railway station with my new 35mm ‘grown up’ camera. Although I didn't really appreciate the castle being hidden up a little lane behind the High Street, we had a fun day out. There was picnicking on mum’s home-made cheese tarts and dad’s home-grown tomatoes, if I remember correctly. Unfortunately the camera wasn't particularly good, so my memories aren't photographic.

This year, Lewes has received plenty more summer visitors. Now, like migrant swallows, most have departed - and the snaking queue of customers between Le Magasin and Bill's Produce Store has finally disappeared. (Some say the queue changes direction on occasions, with a few people at the back of the line being served breakfast as they wait for lunch at the neighbouring restaurant). Yet while Lewesians breathe a sigh of relief when the sightseers say goodbye, we in Ringmer have enjoyed an entire season of peace. In fact, although there are a couple of places in the village offering Bed and Breakfast, I think I can safely say that Ringmer is not a tourist trap.

How can I be so sure?  Just five simple checks. First, I've never seen anyone in Ringmer suddenly stop walking down the pavement to consult a map. Second, I've not heard anyone here complaining about all the shops turning into coffee bars... or turning into bookshops... or turning into antique dealers. Third, I've never found anyone peering into the local estate agent's window to compare prices with those 'back home'. Fourth, we don't have multiple buskers. And finally, there aren’t any holiday route signs directing traffic along the B2192. Unless… hmm… perhaps we’re at the end of the route. Maybe that's how those yellow signs worked. When you stopped seeing them, it was time to stop driving!

First published on vivalewes.com 19th September 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/going-back-to-my-routes/

The cycle of learning

When I was a teenager, I stepped on a banana skin. Until that point I had no idea banana skins were actually slippery. I'd viewed them as fictional comedy props that never really worked properly, like itching powder and invisible ink. The same as those cartoons where errant cyclists flew over the handlebars. How I laughed. I was even laughing after I flew over the handlebars of my own bike in Lewes this week. My biggest regret was not catching the moment on camera.

It was, you'll be pleased to hear, my fault. Well, I was in a hurry. I wasn't early enough to catch the bus from Ringmer, so I was pedalling frenetically down Southover Road and then stopped too quickly. All of a sudden I was flying through the air and doing an impromptu handstand while my bicycle caught up. "Are you alright?" asked a concerned passer-by. Much to my surprise, I was. I continued to my meeting, had a strong cup of tea (for medicinal purposes only) and cycled home.

Unfortunately the combination of tea and adrenaline eventually ran out. An uncomfortable ache in my left hand became evident. Torn between suffering the pain of my cycling injury and the pain of waiting behind dozens of more-deserving patients in Brighton's Accident & Emergency department, I asked my wife for advice. "Why don't you go to the Minor Injury Unit in Lewes?"

This was a revelation. What a wonderful resource. Although I knew the Lewes Victoria Hospital was there on Nevill Road, I'd not realised it was happy if you wandered in without an appointment. But wander I did. This time I travelled on the 28 bus, which turned out to be a wise choice. After a spot of form-filling at the hospital I was soon seen by ‘Sister’, who gently prodded me, noticed me flinch and sent me off for an x-ray. A few minutes of Bargain Hunt on the TV in reception passed the time adequately before my hand was irradiated. Back to Sister, who'd spotted a worrying line on one of the photographs. Perhaps a scaphoid fracture, she said, perhaps not. But better safe than sorry. She plastered my wrist and part of my arm, booking a consultation for me at the Brighton fracture clinic. They'd take a closer look, possibly with an MRI scan.

The reason for the caution, I was told, was that the damage could affect blood flow to the bone... which in turn could cause problems with my thumb. And, as Sister pointed out, it's our thumbs that set us apart from other animals. Too true, I thought, as I strolled back to the bus stop. Without a thumb I'd be no more use than a cat. And what chance was there of a cat ever writing this column?

First published on vivalewes.com 5th September 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/the-cycle-of-learning/

Feline groovy

"Good morning, fatboy" says the teenager as he wanders downstairs for his breakfast. I'm tempted to reply with "It's not fat, it's loose skin" but instead I shrug and adopt an expression that suggests I don't understand. Well, I've been up half the night partying and would rather get back to my dream about goldfish. Oh, how I love goldfish. A bit like sushi, except livelier. Sorry, I'm being rude. I haven't introduced myself yet. Mark's busy this week so I thought I'd step in and lend a hand. A paw, really. I'm Rupert the cat.

I know what you're thinking. (No, honestly, I do. We cats are all telepathic). What's a cat going to write about? Much the same as your regular columnist, I'd say. Admittedly I don't see as much of Ringmer as he does - these days I've put away my cat-nav and limit my territory to the end of the street - but I still stay in touch via social media. Oh, how I love twittering. It's like hearing a dinner bell.

Anyway, as I was saying, Mark's tied up with other work. Not that I usually call him by his chosen name. To me he is The One With The Food. This grand title means he is accorded worship on the sofa most evenings. Humans will suggest it indicates affection. We cats know better.

So with my waiter and your writer distracted, I'm able to offer a few opinions about the local area. It's certainly a popular destination for single cats and mismatched cat couples. Not many feline families. I blame the folk down the road at Raystede for that. Yours truly popped in to visit their animal sanctuary when I was a kitten and left a few days later with the distinct sensation a couple of important components were missing. (Every so often I have a look underneath to see if it'll jog my memory. It doesn't.)

When it comes to retailing, we felines are well catered for in Ringmer. Cat-ered?  Pah, never mind. You'll find a cat convenience store (known by humans as the 'pet shop') and a cat healthcare centre ('v-e-t'). Various shops for people, too.

I can also confirm there's no rat problem in Ringmer. There's no mouse problem, either. There's not even a crunchy vole problem. All are found in adequate supply if you know where to look. (If you don't know where to look, try lurking by next-door's decking half-an-hour before sunrise).

Still, I've got to dash now. The old chap's returning to his computer. That means I need to stop dictating and must just sit on the keyboard nonchalantly. Yes, dictating. It has speech-recognition software. Well, how else did you think I could write all this?   Me. Ow.

First published on vivalewes.com 22nd August 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/feline-groovy/

Pilot of the airwaves

Dearly beloved, I stand before you with my head hung low. There are things I have failed to do this week. Sins of omission, you might say. Becoming the new BBC Radio 2 'Pause for Thought' presenter was one of those things. Verily, it seemed a good idea at the time. All I had to do was write a two-minute religious reflection that would offer a thought for the day.

The 'Pause for Thought' contest was announced at the beginning of July, although I only heard about it three days before the competition ended on 5th August. A slight disadvantage but I reckoned this would help me focus on the challenge - which was (fortunately) not in the style of Big Brother or X-Factor but simply required me to write and record a thought-provoking message. "I could do that", I told myself.

To start with, everything ran very smoothly. I compiled a list of useful words from Victorian sermons, ensuring I would beseech my listeners to hold fast and hold forth to whatever it was I planned to tell them. Yea, and it was so. Unfortunately I then turned to the terms and conditions of the contest. One of the judging criteria was "Is the theological content in keeping with the basic tenets of the contributor’s stated faith position?"

Uh-oh. Not only did I need to decide what I believed in, I also needed to be consistent. This was going to be a problem.

Or was it?   Last month I visited the All Saints Centre in Lewes, which was a church until it was transformed into a community centre in 1980. (I was there to talk to the Lewes, Glynde and Beddingham Brass Band during one of their rehearsals; you'll find my interview on p25 of this month's Viva Lewes magazine unless my mother's collected all the spare copies, marked the page with a post-it note and given one to each of her friends). And only last week I took a short-cut through the churchyard in Ringmer.

I'd be the first to admit that those visits don't make me a regular churchgoer... but it did get me thinking. Much as I enjoy wandering round an old building, it's people who really constitute a church. I'd argue that churches are all about community rather than being places with a pointy roof - and it's people that matter. You could even say the All Saints Centre is as much a church today as it ever was.

Which, I suppose, is my 'stated faith position'. I like people and I like a good story. It's a bit vague, I know. It's also a bit late for the Radio 2 competition. Perhaps they'll run it again next year.

First published on vivalewes.com 8th August 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/pilot-of-the-airwaves/

The son has got his hat on

Time once again for a cross-border adventure to see mum in West Sussex. It's a beautiful sunny day with a postcard-blue sky, so we head to a cafe on the seafront for lunch. I fancy a salad and a glass of water but I know this change from my usual routine would cause concern - apparently no man's wife can feed him as well as his mother - so I choose a toasted sandwich and a cappuccino. My usual fare. Well, I don't want her thinking the sun has gone to my head.

By the time our food arrives, the top of my scalp is beginning to feel as crispy as the bacon in the sandwich. The brie, which was supposed to remain with the bacon inside the bread, resembles volcanic lava on the plate. And my coffee is, as I feared, undrinkably hot.

I reach for my emergency hat, which is actually a paisley bandana. I imagine it makes me look rather like Johnny Depp. Mother’s expression suggests she agrees... but not in a good way. While we wait for our meals to become more temperate, we watch someone borrow one of the cafe's chairs from an adjacent table and move it next to a seafront bench. This is done with neither subterfuge nor speed, although it seems a bit like 'Taking Without Owner's Consent' to me. That's either a criminal record or bonus points depending on whether you're playing in real life or online.

Like a scene from a disaster movie, molten brie is now threatening the garnish at the edge of my plate. I wonder if Pierce Brosnan will arrive to divert the cheese before it reaches the slice of cucumber. Bubbles rise from the coffee.

After a few minutes a burly chef appears on the scene. Dressing in white wouldn't be my first choice if I wanted to look intimidating but this chap carries it off. Mind you, dressing in white wouldn't be my choice for working in a kitchen either. The person who originally thought that was a good idea clearly didn't do the washing. Anyway, chef glances around, spots his errant chair and strides across to its borrower - who much to my surprise hasn't also snaffled a couple of coffee cups and a handful of sugar cubes. There's much forced smiling. The word 'just' is used a lot. Chef returns triumphant with his chair, conjuring the spirit of Indiana Jones.

Meanwhile mum is bringing me up to speed with the major events in her life. Or, to be more accurate, the big events in her friends' lives. I nod knowingly and check my drink, wondering if the hot weather has got to everyone.

The cup is empty. My coffee has evaporated. Perhaps I need a glass of water to rehydrate it.

First published on vivalewes.com 25th July 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/the-son-has-got-his-hat-on/

Accept your fête

The very first episode of Channel 4 television series 'Father Ted' contains one of the sitcom's most memorable scenes. Father Dougal insists on visiting 'Funland' on Craggy Island, where the world's least exciting funfair is taking place. One of the stalls is simply a cat rotating on the turntable of a record player. To avoid any doubt, a hand-painted sign says 'Spinning cat'.

That mechanised moggie is an image I often think of whenever village entertainment is mentioned – but local events shouldn’t all be written off as uninteresting. Our neighbouring village of Glynde recently hosted a couple of festivals that saw world-renowned musicians performing. There's the Ringmer Steam & Country Show in a few weeks and coming up even sooner is the Ringmer Shopkeepers' Fun Day.

This appears to have two straightforward aims. One is to raise funds for charity. The other is to encourage local people to visit the shopping precinct. Now, there's no denying our precinct is suffering from an economic downturn at the moment. I counted four empty shops this week, which is a sizeable percentage of the total. No trendy ‘pop up’ art galleries or discount luggage retailers have arrived to temporarily fill the spaces. Yet those remaining shops have managed to arrange live music, dancing, a dog agility display, a dog show, the attendance of East Sussex Fire & Rescue, special offers and free food. Pretty impressive, given the circumstances. Most intriguingly, there'll be free dog portraits as well.

For four hours on Saturday 13th July, we're promised fun for the entire family. It's easy to mock. It's easy to ask when the 'duck startling' begins and where the terrifying 'tunnel of goats' is. (Both are on fictional Craggy Island, since you ask). But I think there'll be charm and a real sense of community. You could almost say the Ringmer fun day will be more honest than larger events.

In fact, I'm already planning my visit. First, I need to disguise the cat by giving him a bone and walking him up to the precinct on a lead. Well, there’s a free portrait on offer. Unless… hmmm… I wonder if he’d sit on our old record player?

First published on vivalewes.com 11th July 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/accept-your-fete/

Spies Like Us

According to the papers, it seems the American government - and possibly civil servants here in the UK - may have been reading my email and discovering which web sites I've visited. On one hand I'm not too bothered about the reality of this. My online activity is either work-related (boring, so our resident teenager tells me) or entertainment (slightly embarrassing, given my fondness for dystopian sci-fi and 1980s music). On the other hand, I'm less happy about the underlying assumption that I'm potentially guilty unless proven innocent. Anyway, if I wanted information about bomb-making I wouldn't search online; I'd borrow my wife's library ticket instead.

I'm also troubled by the apparent incongruity in the decision to charge 'whistleblower' Edward Snowden with espionage after he revealed the US security service was spying on just about everyone. If there was an Interpol of Irony, they'd currently be making arrests at the highest levels of government.

But all this has got me thinking about the many benefits of living here in Ringmer. There's been a lot of talk recently about people living 'off grid' to avoid being tracked by surveillance... and I reckon this village is a good place to choose. To start with, it's easier to get here than flying to Moscow. The 28 bus from Lewes runs every half hour and is happy to accept cash payments, so there's no worry about being tracked through your credit card receipts.

Being monitored via mobile phone calls can be a concern in some cases. Less so in Ringmer, where we're blessed with many mobile black spots depending on your chosen network. I reckon you could avoid receiving incriminating text messages for weeks just by hanging around at the back of the chip shop. And if you want to be completely self-sufficient, you can rent an allotment next to the electricity sub-station.

Yes, Ringmer is a perfect safe haven. If you’d like to become totally anonymous, it's the place to be. What could this mean to the free world? I need some time to think about my plan to promote Ringmer as the new Ecuador, so I head to the pub. As I arrive at the bar, I'm greeted with "Your usual, Mark?"

Oh dear. Perhaps it's not as anonymous around here as I thought.

First published on vivalewes.com 27th May 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/spies-like-us/

Too good for words

Last week I went on holiday, complete with wife and family, to the fishing town of Padstow in Cornwall. As I sat by the edge of the harbour with a Cornish pasty, a logo on the paper bag reminded me that my lunch was actually a product with Protected Geographical Indication status across Europe.

That meant, amongst other things, it had to be made in Cornwall otherwise it couldn't legally be called a Cornish pasty. It needed to be D-shaped and crimped along one side, not with the crimping on the top like a stegosaurus or a Klingon warrior. Inside I could expect to find beef, potato, swede, onion but no other vegetables – begone, carrot! – nor any artificial additives. And indeed I didn’t.

Clotted cream and sardines also have similar protection in Cornwall. This got me thinking about some East Sussex delicacies. Our local bakery in Ringmer produces the Jack & Jill bun, which doesn't just contain fruit but is topped with icing and jam as well. Down in Lewes there are the fritters in Laporte's, a Bill's breakfast, the salads at the Buttercup Cafe, lemon drizzle cake at The Needlemakers, products at the Farmers' market... all these deserve wider recognition, I reckon.

For a while I thought about starting a campaign to turn Ringmer and Lewes into one of those protected areas for agriculture and food. Soon the whole world would know about the high quality of our local delicacies.

However, there's a catch. You see, although true Cornish pasties need to be made in Cornwall, they don't need to be baked there. They can be assembled within the county and then cooked somewhere else.

And that's why I think we should keep quiet about the benefits of Lewes and its surrounding villages. If we don't, there'll be Jack & Jill buns for sale around the globe. Our special treats won't be special any more. So the next time you buy particularly good local food, make sure you leave the shop cursing loudly. It'll drive the foodies away... and it'll be our own secret sign of appreciation.

First published on vivalewes.com 13th May 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/too-good-for-words/

At home with a gnome

I cross the border into West Sussex to see my mother. When I arrive she calls me into her bird hide - sorry, conservatory - to show me something. "Look over there, by the pond."

The pond, by the way, is the result of me and my brother visiting a fair when we were youngsters. Both of us won goldfish in plastic bags, which led to dad constructing a pond. I can only assume there was a glut of goldfish that year because I've subsequently never demonstrated the same level of success at any fairground stall. Anyway, around 20 relatives of those fish now live in the garden with their own fountain and the occasional frog. Well, not so much 'relatives' as 'replacements'. The original prize fish didn't last long. Perhaps they missed the travelling life.

But today it's neither aquatic nor avian visitors I'm looking at. It's a small concrete creature with pointed ears and a mischievous grin. This new arrival is wearing some kind of smock and appears to have no trousers. Perhaps those wrinkles on its legs are supposed to be tights. I don't want to look too closely. Mother has bought a gnome.

"It's my garden pixie", says mum. No, it's not. It's a gnome. My heart sinks. You hear about this kind of thing happening to other people but you never think it'll strike your own family. I suppose I should have seen the signs. Once, mum just went to garden centres to buy plants. But that wasn't enough. Soon it was lawn food, fish food, bird food... and lunch. Before long she was taking a shortcut straight to the café. It was only a matter of time before the gnomes got her.

That same afternoon she switches on the television to catch up with news from Chelsea Flower Show. There, amongst the medal-winning gardens, are hand-decorated gnomes. Shocking, I know. It's unexpected because the Royal Horticultural Society had previously banned gnomes from its displays. Apparently they've been allowed in for the 100th anniversary of the event and are being auctioned for charity. Naturally, the RHS doesn't use a specific word like 'gnome'. The garden ornaments they prohibit are described officially as "brightly coloured mythical creatures". Hang on. That means mum's stone-coloured chap really isn't a gnome after all. Perhaps there's still hope for her. Unless she decides to paint his legs, of course.

First published on vivalewes.com 30th May 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/

On the internet, no-one knows you’re a village

There's a well-known cartoon from New Yorker magazine. A dog is sitting on a chair using a computer, whilst another dog sits nearby. "On the Internet, nobody knows you're a dog", explains the canine on the chair.

Two things strike me here. The first - and this is particularly shocking - is that the cartoon is around twenty years old, which is prehistoric as far as the world wide web is concerned. Come to think of it, when was the last time anyone actually said ‘world wide web’?   However, I'm also struck by how the internet has changed in those two decades. What was once almost anonymous has become very personal. Today millions of us are tweeting using our real names, telling Facebook everything we do and uploading photographs of every meal we eat.

Curious about what was happening locally, I turned to Twitter. (In the unlikely event you're not familiar with this, it's a web service that lets you send short messages. These can be sent directly to friends or can be posted online for everyone to see). Searching for "Ringmer" revealed a few unforeseen trends. Firstly, we're a surprisingly cat-friendly village. Not only do we have a cat-sitter, we're also worried about missing cats. No mention of dogs, though.

I can tell you that local residents are giving away a couple of tatty suitcases, a china pot holder, some bean bag filling (isn't that simply 'beans'?), a breadmaker and rubble. Before you laugh, let me emphasise the phrase “giving away”.

We're all pretty fit… and not just because we're out looking for cats. It seems Ringmer is keen on football, cricket, motorcross and zumba. One other leisure interest that's on offer locally - so Twitter tells me - is pole fitness. Despite the previous association with burlesque dancing, it's gone mainstream in more recent years. You could even have seen it demonstrated during a 'pamper evening' at the primary school last week. I definitely wasn't expecting that.

Yet all this activity doesn't capture the true spirit or the relatively small size of Ringmer. It’s easy to get carried away when you’re tweeting, as several high-profile people have discovered to their cost. Unlike the cartoon creatures, we shouldn't pretend to be something we're not. In fact, that’s at the heart of my favourite recent Ringmer tweet. "You act like your a gangsta but you live in ringmer". I might have that turned into a t-shirt.

First published on vivalewes.com 16th May 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/on-the-internet-no-one-knows-youre-a-village/

Words don’t come easy

For the past few weeks I've seen a road sign as I entered Lewes along the Phoenix Causeway. "Speed restriction work", it warned. "Delays for two weeks". It was referring to the new 20mph speed limit that's designed to reduce accidents and injuries in the town centre. My complaint isn't about the new lower limit - I'm sure most right-minded people would encourage drivers to collide with pedestrians at slower speeds - but about the wording of the sign. Any delays caused by the painting of new road markings have now been replaced by a permanently reduced limit. I shouted at the sign every time I went past. "It's not just for a fortnight. It's forever. Delays forever".

Language changes all the time, I know. That's perfectly natural. This isn't about split infinitives and greengrocers' apostrophes or about the difference between less and fewer. I only get seriously annoyed when things are unclear, misleading or plain stupid. For example, shopping at Waitrose presents a new etymological challenge. After loading my groceries into my fashionably reusable shopping bag I pay by credit card. When I've finished, the delightful young cashier ruins the experience by saying "If you could remove your card from the machine". That's a conditional sentence without any consequence. In my head I'm screaming "If... then. If... then. Then what?"

But an illogical frustration that tops both of these annoyances is much closer to home. In fact, it's outside the convenience shop here in Ringmer. We have a cash machine that vends £5 notes. This is a smart idea but unfortunately the machine isn't smart in any other sense. I insert my card and enter my PIN code. I'm offered a choice between "Withdraw cash and check balance" or "Cash only". Just cash, I decide. "Do you want to check your balance?" asks the machine. I curse silently as I press the "No" key. No, if I'd wanted to check my balance I would have chosen that option. "Would you like a receipt?" asks the machine. I would. "Sorry", says the machine, "Receipts are not available". I’ve stopped thinking of it as a cash machine. It’s more like a mechanical village idiot.

First published on vivalewes.com 3rd May 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/words-dont-come-easy/

Spring in the air

Spring in the air, there's magic everywhere. So say the lyrics of the remarkably musical and sadly departed Van McCoy. They came to mind this week because we're finally getting some warmish spring weather. It seems to have been preceded by much grumbling, most of which appears to be based on a fundamental misunderstanding of the way our planet's climate works. Mind you, that lack of understanding isn't helped by the Met Office weather app on our resident teenager's mobile phone, which informs him there'll be cloud from 9am until noon, at which point the sun will come out for three hours - as though it's waiting with a stopwatch before donning its hat.

Anyway, I have seen the first true sign of spring. No, it's not the lambs in the fields around Ringmer. In fact this initial sign is to be found in Lewes, although it's neither the goods at the Farmers' Market nor the appearance of swallows. You'll find it alongside the Tesco supermarket... but I'm not talking about the may blossom, despite my lovely wife pointing to the hawthorn and telling me it's safe to remove my vest. (I still reckon the rhyme about casting clouts refers to the month, not the tree). No, the earliest sign of spring is the sight of stage 1 picnicking.

Yes, stage 1 picnicking. You see, I believe there are three formal levels of picnic, which - in homage to WarGames, a sci-fi film from my formative teenage years - I shall describe in terms of PicCon: Picnic Readiness Condition.

PicCon 3: the full picnic. Only for warm, sunny days. There'll be home-made food packed in a wicker hamper. Expect pies made with industrial-strength pastry, usually served with milky tea, strong black coffee or orange squash that tastes of its plastic bottle. On special occasions some may prefer to substitute warm Chardonnay for the squash, although they'll need to open the wine with the handle of a teaspoon unless they remembered to pack a corkscrew.

PicCon 2: a self-assembled but supermarket-bought picnic, often prepared when the weather forecast has been uncertain. Scotch eggs, quiche, a tub of cherry tomatoes and maybe even a layered salad with a tiny plastic fork clipped semi-permanently inside the lid. This is frequently purchased in advance of festivals or trips to the seaside/countryside. You may wish to add a can of ready-mixed gin & tonic for instant luxury.

But before all this comes PicCon 1: the instant picnic, consumed at the first glimpse of sunshine regardless of the outside temperature. This is barely a picnic at all but is simply ready-prepared food eaten outside. A sandwich in a triangular cardboard packet shared on a bench by the river. Two muffins and a can of energy drink. A pot of yoghurt with an iced doughnut. That's not much of a picnic, I hear you say. Very true. But it's not much of a spring so far, either.

First published on vivalewes.com 25th April 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

An Easter story

"I got our mat from bin queue", says my mother-in-law. Good lord. I know it's grim up north but I'd not imagined my wife's parents were rummaging in the rubbish to furnish their home. Worse still, they weren't even at the front of the line. It's only after a few more minutes of conversation that the penny drops. B&Q. Not bin queue. Fortunately I'd not said anything, although my eyes had widened to a Marty Feldman-like look of surprise. I hope they'll interpret this as an indication of my love for DIY.

Yes, the in-laws are down from t'north for Easter. This, contrary to any comedy stereotypes, is actually rather pleasant for all of us. My wife is obviously pleased to see them. We've stocked up on hot cross buns, which our resident teenager is enjoying on what appears to be an hourly basis. The cats are inadvertently given the run of the house. And I've gained valuable 'husband points' by tidying the place before they arrived.

At this stage, I probably need to point out that I'm not built like a rugby player. I'm built more like a marathon runner, albeit one who doesn't actually run marathons because he prefers being indoors with a nice cup of tea.

This is relevant because the main part of my tidying was putting a large box in the loft. The box had been sitting on the landing below the loft hatch for a while, mainly because it appeared to be larger than the opening. However, when the house was deserted, I thought I'd have a go. It's a bit like the philosophical question of whether or not a falling tree makes a sound if no-one hears it. If no-one sees me making a fool of myself, I can't possibly be embarrassed.

Having placed a step-ladder below the hatch, I tried to climb the ladder whilst pushing the box from below. Unstable. I almost end up inside the box. I then half-climb the steps and attempt to lift the box. No, there's definitely not room for my head and the box to pass through the loft opening. For a moment I'm stuck until the fear of being found here helps me wriggle loose. Eventually I nurse the box up the steps and into the loft, contorting myself to prevent either of us from slipping back through the hatch.

So all's well. In fact, there's only one downside to the in-laws staying. My lovely wife and I have offered them our bedroom, which means we're sleeping on a sofa-bed downstairs. It's perfectly comfortable - unless you've twisted your back doing something daft in the loft. I wake up as though set in stone like a victim of Pompeii. "He's been doing some work round the house" explains my wife at breakfast time. Everyone nods knowingly. I look for a hot cross bun to ease the pain but they all seem to have disappeared.

First published on vivalewes.com 12th April 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

Garden centred

I head over the border into West Sussex to see mum, who treats me to lunch at a garden centre. I’m served a perfectly acceptable snack that comprises an Italian-style sandwich with Italian-style ingredients on Italian-style bread, finished off with an Italian-style coffee. To continue the continental theme there's even an advertisement for 'Italian grown plants' on the table. Apparently these plants spend their childhood in Tuscany, which means they're well suited to the south of England. I gaze through the double-glazed window at the nose-to-tail traffic outside. It starts to rain. The concept of homesick shrubs begins to trouble me, so I distract myself by looking inside the garden centre instead.

When I was younger, places were always what they claimed to be. Garden centres sold grass. Supermarkets sold food. Airports were where you caught a plane. Not any more. Everywhere is a 'destination'. Take this freshly-expanded garden centre, for example. There's a pizza oven in the restaurant. There's a conference room to hire; ideal for the kind of business meeting that needs to be held in a plant-themed retail environment. There's free Wi-Fi. Gifts. Kitchenware. Stationery. Shortbread biscuits in enamel tins. A chaise longue, for heaven’s sake.

Meanwhile, supermarkets now sell televisions, airports play host to celebrity restaurants and almost every petrol station has a coffee machine. Mind you, occasionally the coffee tastes as though it’s kept in the same storage tanks as the fuel.

Arriving back home, I find our resident teenager suffering from ennui. "Ringmer is boring", he tells me, before adding "there's nothing to do". Rather than draw attention to the unnecessary duplication in his weary claim, I'm prepared to admit he has a point. It's not that Ringmer really is boring. Definitely not. But our little village can sometimes appear a bit on the quiet side.

I reckon I have the perfect solution. All we need to do is put a roof on the entire place and call it a multimedia experience. Our church is smarter than the average airport chapel, our garden centre actually grows plants and our pubs are livelier than any tacky themed bar. Come to Ringmer retail park: where everything makes sense.

First published on vivalewes.com 21st March 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

Better than Barcelona

I've just returned from four busy days working in Barcelona. (No, I'm not expecting sympathy. There are very few UK jobs that wouldn't be enhanced if they were transposed to the Spanish coast, although being an umbrella salesperson might be more of a challenge). For the last few years Catalonia's main city has hosted Mobile World Congress, an event that sees thousands upon thousands of phone manufacturers, network operators and software developers dragging their wheeled suitcases along cobbled pavements. If there's a single sound that says 'business trip', it's the noise of a wheeled suitcase being dragged by a man in a suit. Anyway, I was there... and unlike many of my fellow travellers, I was struggling with a heavy bag slung casually over my shoulder in order to blend in with the locals. I'd also chosen to wear a bright orange jacket in a bid to look 'European'. Well, I'd heard numerous tales of conference visitors being targeted by pickpockets.

I learned three things from this trip. Firstly, my shoulders are not especially rugged. It's clear that my mother held me by the shoulder, rather than by the traditional heel, when giving me my childhood dip in the River Styx. Next time my suitcase won't just have wheels, I'll make sure there's an outboard motor as well. Secondly, an orange jacket is as much a fashion statement in Spain as it is in the UK - which is another way of saying I stuck out like a sore carrot. On a positive note, dressing as a fluorescent hunchback is apparently off-putting to street criminals.

But perhaps most importantly, I learned that Barcelona is very similar to Ringmer. Except Ringmer is better. Let's begin with the Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's stunning eighteen-spired church. It was started back in the 19th century and still gives the impression of being a work in progress. Ringmer's church may be a little smaller but it's definitely finished. Next, there's Iberian ham. This is traditionally prepared on a jamonera, which looks like the offspring of a breadboard and a medieval punishment, and is usually carved with the unfortunate pig's trotter still attached. Our local butcher wouldn't dream of selling meat without lopping the foot off first. On the subject of food, visit many restaurants in Barcelona and they'll serve you tapas. Visit Ringmer and you'll be offered full-size meals. That's three-nil to us already. Talking of soccer scores, Barcelona has a football club based at the inappropriately-named Camp Nou: the ‘new field’. Inappropriate because it's now over 50 years old. Ringmer's football team play at the Caburn Ground, a fitting name as it’s been overlooked by Mount Caburn since the Cretaceous Period around 100 million years ago.

Finally, there's language. Barcelona is proudly Catalonian, so you'll hear both Spanish and Catalan spoken in the city. Yet Ringmer is a one-language village, making life much easier. Sure, you may hear the occasional villager telling you he wunt be druv but you don't need to juggle two phrasebooks when you visit us. Maybe I ought to have a word with Ringmer's parish council. I reckon we should put in a bid to host 70,000 mobile phone specialists. My shoulder would certainly appreciate it.

First published on vivalewes.com 7th March 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

The galloping gourmet

Horse meat again. Don't know where, don't know when. But I know we've not seen the last of the equine puns. With dodgy processed food still in the headlines - it's been the mane news, you might say - we'll be hearing these jokes furlong time. We're saddled with them.

However, the curious incident of the horse in the lasagne isn't an unbridled disaster. It's made many of us aware of the vast amount of food miles in a processed meal... and it's encouraged people to visit their nearest butcher rather than a supermarket. Here in Ringmer, we have an outstandingly good one. He's definitely able to assure you of the provenance of his produce - yet too much information can sometimes seem uncomfortably personal. I'm reminded of a holiday during which the local butcher recommended the lamb because "you can taste the heather from the hills here". That's only one step away from meeting its parents and seeing photos of it as a baby.

In case you're wondering, I've been a vegetarian but at the moment I'm a carnivore. My return to flesh-eating started innocuously enough: I wouldn't buy meat although I'd eat it if invited to dinner at someone else's house. Seemed rude not to. But before I knew it, I'd begun feeling sorry for left-over food. A couple of reduced-price kidneys at the end of the day?   I tracked down a recipe and dined on devilled kidneys for just 50p. Three miserable looking sardines?   Grilled with a green salad (and gutted with guidance from Delia, who helped me discover that the fishiest smell in the world could be found inside a fish. A bargain nonetheless). I had become a kind-of culinary St Francis, saving the least loved creatures for my plate.

Today, I've put my 'sad food' phase behind me. But it's left me thinking about a solution to the crisis that's hit our meat industry. First of all, if you're worried about what you're eating, simply buy something recognisable. Rabbit looks a lot like rabbit. A pork chop will contain 100% pork. You're unlikely to mistake a chicken for too much else. Oxtail is disconcertingly tail-like. Retailers need to start promoting animal-shaped meals.

And if that doesn't increase sales, I have a second plan. I suggest giving every animal a name that engenders sympathy - maybe Brunhilde for cows, Enid for chickens - and labelling its products with a photograph of the creature looking particularly depressed. I reckon that would work well... at least until someone asked "why the long face?"

First published on vivalewes.com 21st February 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

When the cat’s away…

My mother's been counting birds, she tells me. There was an RSPB survey the other week that involved her tallying the number of visitors seen in an hour. Rather like Neighbourhood Watch but without hiding behind a curtain. Perhaps that’s why some people call it ‘twitching’. Anyway, she ended up monitoring the garden for two hours and then struggled to decide which hour to submit. One had more variety - woodpecker, blackcap, assorted finches - but the other was a larger total. Eventually it was quantity that won, disproving the idea that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

I mention this because until recently I'd not seen many birds in our Ringmer garden. Sure, we have jackdaws on our chimney pot and seagulls circling overhead. I've even spotted a heron on the village pond. But feathery visitors have been few and far between, mainly because of our two cats.

When I say "our" I don't mean mine. I have no cats. In fact, I've heard suggestions that no-one really owns cats; it's cats that own people. Semantics aside, the cats were already living with my wife when we first met, so they're definitely not mine. (Except when they need feeding or a trip to the vet, of course). Anyway, I reckon they’re slowing down. It's the weather, I'm sure. Outside is cold, indoors is warm... and because I spend much of my time working from home, the cats now spend much of their time in the lounge. The sofa is rarely cat-free except when I plug the sofa-cleaning attachment into the vacuum cleaner. But there is an upside. These days I'm noticing more bird life in our garden. Whilst our neighbours have spent many years encouraging feathered friends onto a gazebo that's guarded by a small terrier, we've been more worried than joyful whenever a robin lands.

However, in the last week or so there’s been considerably less cat activity in the garden and more cat inactivity indoors. I’ve even taken to regularly gazing out of the window to watch an occasional blackbird hop across the lawn. Such joy.

At least, there was joy until an unfortunate incident the other day. A thrush landed on the garden path. I looked around; both cats asleep. Lovely. All’s well with the world. The thrush hops down the path, showing off its speckled waistcoat without a care. And then it spots a slug. It stabs the poor slug with its beak and pounds it against the ground again and again. I can’t bear this. Surely it’s time to send the cats out.

First published on vivalewes.com 8th February 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

The snow man

Ask when a boy becomes a man and you're likely to receive a variety of answers that involve driving, voting, responsibility and drinking beer. We've identified a new indicator in our household... and it's come from the heavens. Cold weather had been predicted all week, so it was no surprise when the snow finally arrived last Friday. Our resident teenager provided regular forecasts from the internet as soon as he was home from college, then swaddled himself in scarves on Saturday and cheerfully walked through the snow to his part-time job. By Sunday night he was much less happy. "I'm bored with the snow", he moaned. "There's nothing to do". And so adulthood begins. On a personal note, it's the cold rather than the boredom that troubles me. My fingers turn blue, my face goes white and I need to stamp my feet to improve the circulation as I walk, which means I look rather like a tap-dancing zombie on ice.

I'm doing my best to stay warm, of course. I've heard you can lose 45% of your body heat through your head so I located my knitted bobble hat and wore it as I wandered up to the shops. Not only did I discover the 45% figure is an urban myth, I also learned you can lose 90% of your credibility through your hat. After a while I stopped answering people who either told me they'd found Wally or asked me where Big Ears was.

However, the snow reminded me about two major benefits of living in Ringmer. Firstly, our local butcher has a stockpile of frozen rabbits. Mind you, I imagine there isn't much extra freezing needed if they're caught at this time of year. Yes, I'll get by without my rabbit pie... but that's not necessary in these parts.

Then there are the grit lorries. Although no-one's ever discovered how a gritter driver gets to work in the snow, they always seem to manage. We’re lucky enough to have a colony of gritters (or is it a pride?) nestled in the centre of Ringmer. These magnificent beasts hide during daylight hours and only emerge at night to mark their territory with a glistening salty trail. "The gritters were out again today", announces the teenager with a level of enthusiasm usually only heard when David Attenborough is talking about gorillas. "Do the drivers take them home? That looks like a good job."

Perhaps snow isn't so boring after all.

First published on vivalewes.com 24th January 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

No New Year revolution

Welcome to 2013, the year after the year the world didn't end.

It was an odd thing, all that apocalyptic anxiety about the Mayan calendar last month. Apparently the Maya counted days using a system that ended on 21st December 2012, which prompted some people to anticipate a cataclysm. I wasn't convinced but then I've got a Casio digital watch with a 'universal calendar' until 2039. My biggest concern is remembering to put it on eBay in around 25 years’ time. Our resident teenager expected some form of zombie attack and spent most of the month preparing for it by battling reanimated corpses on his Xbox. Mind you, he still bought Christmas presents for us in case the undead didn't inherit the earth.

Although 2013 isn't going to be popular with many triskaidekaphobes - every Friday 13th will have an extra sting in the tail - I'm not especially bothered by the supernatural. In fact, I've been feeling positive enough to consider making a new year's resolution. Now, I ruled out any kind of health-related commitment pretty quickly. Jogging in the rain isn't fun. My nearest indoor fitness facility is Ringmer pool, which would be okay if I had Daniel Craig's swimming trunks. And his looks. Anyway, I've been known to run for the 28 bus. Even worrying that I'll miss the bus burns calories, doesn't it?

Then there's personal improvement. I considered a resolution about honesty but already believe it’s generally best to tell the truth. Offering fashion advice and receiving unwanted Christmas gifts are the usual exceptions I've discovered in recent weeks. "Yes, it suits you perfectly. How wonderful, I've always wanted one of those". Okay, I confess I haven't told various family members they sometimes appear in this very vivalewes.com column although neither have I been untruthful. I may occasionally employ hyperbole, pathos and a little incidental music to make a point... but I really do live in Ringmer with two cats, a non-fictional wife and a vampire hunter.

Ah yes, Ringmer. Much as I might try to convince my mother it's an upmarket suburb of Lewes - rather like South Kensington is to London or Beverly Hills is to the county of Los Angeles - we all know that's not the case. Korean pop-master Psy isn't coming here to record 'Ringmer Style'. (It would be similar to Gangnam Style but with fewer cars and more horse-riding). We're simply a village that's fortunate to have a parade of shops and an assortment of other local facilities. Therefore my resolution for 2013 is that I'll use them more than I did last year, making the most of what I’m lucky enough to have on my doorstep. We may not have the variety of retail outlets you'll find in Lewes... but that's hardly the end of the world, is it?

First published on vivalewes.com 10th January 2013: http://vivalewes.com/