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/