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/