Shopping for the purr-fect present in Ringmer

“Mip” says Rupert the cat. “Mip, mip.” He’s speaking in Morse code, as usual. Harry, his companion and occasional sparring partner, joins in. “Marup, merup, morup.” I’ve no idea what Harry’s saying. Either Latin or Martian, I’d guess. He nibbles my ankle to encourage my translation efforts. Ah, yes. Time for cat dinner.

In recent years, the two cats that share our Ringmer home have increasingly been happy for me to prepare their food. Harry still occasionally makes a menu suggestion by carefully placing a fully-functioning mouse under the kitchen table, but he’s generally satisfied with a sachet of whatever’s on special offer. Their current food supply claims to be “independently taste tested by experts”, according to the box. I’ve had some bad jobs in my time but that really would top the list. Equally disturbingly, their biscuits are branded as “food cats would naturally choose”. Would my feline guests pop them in the shopping trolley if they had a chance – or would they rather be baking their own? Either way, I’m not convinced.

The ankle-biting is also a timely reminder that the boys will expect a Christmas present. Or, at least, will need a little distraction when the turkey’s being cooked. Local butcher Lew Howard has an ever-growing list of orders at this time of year but I’m not placing an extra one to please our cats. No, it’s off to The Pet Store, a.k.a. Creature Comforts.

That’s one of the great things about living in a village. Although you may not be able to get everything you need, there’s a pretty good chance you’ll have at least one specialist shop that puts many big-city rivals to shame. We have a wealth of such professionals in Ringmer, from home-based businesses to a warehouse or two. And right in the heart of the village, a pet shop with a dog grooming salon. Not merely a retailer but an entertainer. Watching an afghan hound being dried is more fun than most reality TV shows.

When I call in and ask about Christmas gifts, I’m told it’s dogs rather than cats that tend to receive most presents. Apparently this is because dog owners tend to indulge their pets more. I have my own theory. I reckon it’s about the animal’s sense of humour. Dogs like slapstick comedy, while cats prefer irony. You see, there are plenty of amusing dog gifts – clip-on antlers, knitted jumpers, chewy boxes, tinned Christmas dinner – but not so much for cats. I even wonder about buying them an automatic cat feeder before I realise I’d be rendering myself useless.

And then I spot an advent calendar with a catnip treat hidden behind each door. Next to it, a treat-filled fishnet stocking for December 25th. I buy both. Traditional and ironic. Let’s hope the joke is appreciated.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 99 December 2014.

Dancing for the fifth

There's one important thing I've learned since moving to Ringmer: 'bonfire' is a verb and an adjective as well as a noun. But this isn't the kind of linguistic error sometimes heard when over-enthusiastic broadcasters predict Olympic athletes may 'medal' and racing drivers could 'podium'. Instead, it shows how strong the bonfire tradition is in this part of the world. I imagine some bonfire society members are capable of holding entire conversations by using the single word ‘bonfire’ with varying intonation.

To be honest, I've always had a slightly strange relationship with bonfire traditions. As a child growing up in West Sussex, I'd often be taken to Littlehampton bonfire night. This took place on the Saturday before November 5th, which seemed inappropriately premature, although the presence of men in blackface makeup and African warrior costumes puzzled me even more. Why weren't they singing Al Jolson songs?

Sometimes, as an alternative, we’d attend the celebrations of Clapham and Patching bonfire club. These took place on the weekend after Guy Fawkes Night, which was no less confusing. However, eventually I understood these were all secondary to the fiery festivity that took place in Lewes.

I have vivid memories of one family trip when we snuck over the county border into Lewes for Bonfire night. The air was thick with smoke and paraffin fumes from the torches. But despite my imagining that the entire crowd could spontaneously combust, there was no real-life drama. Even as a youngster I was aware of 'volenti non fit injuria'; a concept my family tended to refer to as 'it's your own stupid fault'.

Finally, after all the societies had paraded, all the brass bands had marched and a few people in the crowd had tried to chuck a rookie into a passing tuba, there was time for one last mysterious tradition. This was the Going Home Dance, which wasn't just conducted by our family but by the entire conglomeration of visitors. It starts with a child standing on the kerb next to their parent's car. They lift their left leg, usually holding it by the ankle, while the parent shines a light on the sole of the child's left shoe. When the parent nods, the child hops to their right leg, taking care not to topple onto the verge. Sometimes this is when the dance ends. Yet if the parent issues the command "wipe!", there's a completely new set of moves as the child shuffles vigorously on any nearby grass. Only when the all-clear is given does the journey home begin.

Today, as an adult, I understand much more about the origins of bonfire. I’m proud to live near Lewes. And I’m planning to be in the bonfire crowd with my torch. Battery, not paraffin. Just in case I need to dance.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 98 November 2014.

Taking a cakie

I whip out my mobile phone and take a photo of my birthday cake. This isn't a family tradition or even an obsessive personal habit, although I'll admit to having more than one cake photo in my collection. It just seemed a nice way to celebrate my recent birthday.

My picture, in case you're wondering, only includes the cake. Nothing else. It's not a self-portrait... or even a 'selfie', which is entirely different. In my personal dictionary, 'self-portrait' refers to an accurate photographic representation, perhaps taken with the aid of a tripod and clockwork timer, while a selfie is an exaggerated low-quality wide-angle picture that gives its subject the eyes of a bush-baby and the chin of Dick Dastardly. Anyway, it's not one of those. Neither is it a 'cakie', which is undoubtedly what a cake/selfie hybrid will end up being called at some point.

Having taken the photo, I realise there's nothing to give it any context. Although my only aim was to avoid including my face, I've actually managed to exclude all sense of time. This, when I think about it, is what makes most archive pictures so fascinating. We're not just interested in seeing great-grandfather's face; we're equally fascinated by his sense of fashion. The hat, the sideburns, the shirt: it's his clothes and hair that really intrigue us. The same goes for films and TV. James Cameron's 1997 movie Titanic used cutting-edge digital technology to recreate the ship yet still managed to give Leonardo DiCaprio a haircut from 85 years in the future. Star Trek might be set in the 23rd century but the styling of the original series was rooted in the 1960s. Its 'space hippies' episode (stardate 5832.3, or 1969 if you prefer) has aged particularly badly.

Now, I don't mind occasionally detailing my failings. But I don't want to become a laughing stock simply because I've followed the same social norms and societal pressures as most of my contemporaries. So what can I do about photos? Well, I'm beginning to formulate a plan. What if my pictures were impossible to date? What if the archaeologists of the future couldn't ascertain where or when I'd existed? I'm going to buy some replica Norman armour from the castle gift shop and a toy robot from Wickle. I may even wear a wig. The next time I take a cakie, it'll be impossible to work out what era I'm living in. Most importantly, my new props will prevent me from looking stupid.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 97 October 2014.

Having a wonderful time…

We're on holiday in Cornwall, leaving Ringmer free for Cornish tourists to visit. "What do you write in a postcard?" says my wife, as we shelter from the drizzle. Sadly she's not asking because she needs my literary skills. No, she doesn't see me as Hemingway in a Hawaiian shirt or Oscar Wilde with a suntan. It's purely practical guidance she's looking for.

Quite simply, she wants me to provide a summary of holiday highlights. But what have we done? We've eaten out a bit... but that's hardly unusual. In fact, there's not even a branch of Bill's around here, despite the company's recent expansion rate being equivalent to a culinary Big Bang. Perhaps my wife and I have been indulging in some holiday vices? Nope. Admittedly my pasty consumption is up, yet my coffee and cake consumption has dropped. No overall gain, I say.

I struggle to think how our behaviour has differed from any other day away from work. Let's see. Sometimes on holiday I wear trousers that convert into shorts. They seemed a good idea at the time. Instead of doing what non-holiday people do - checking the weather forecast before they leave home - I have trousers that contain a plastic zip below the knee. One day some enterprising sportswear manufacturer will probably create a jacket that transforms into a waistcoat and then a vest. I may buy one, despite the risk of ending up with just a single sleeve.

My wife was prepared for the rain and is dressed in a heavy-duty waterproof jacket. This is her sartorial antidote to my convertible shorts. It's a remarkable garment that appears to intensify her annoyance with the weather, compressing and focusing it into a glum laser burning from underneath the peaked hood. The result is like having a water-cannon aimed at your soul. In this coat she's barely recognisable as the woman I married, although I hardly dare look at her in case she turns me into a pillar of salt and then washes me away.

Anything else? Well, because I've been wearing shorts and sandals, my ankles are now sunburned. Under any other circumstance, a potentially carcinogenic injury that caused my skin to peel off would be treated as a medical emergency. Yet, from a holiday perspective, tradition dictates it should be viewed as somewhere between mildly annoying and hilariously funny.

I'm about to suggest this as a starting point for the postcard when there's a commotion down the street. As I turn to see what's causing the fuss, I notice a seagull fly out from a crowd of people. Adults are shouting at it. Children are laughing. The seagull displays a mouthful of stolen chips as it passes.

I steal a glance at my wife. She seems to be smiling. I wonder if she's amused by the seagull's antics. Then I see she's just written the phrases 'pink ankle' and 'comedy trousers' on her postcard.

First published on VivaLewes.com 14th August 2014

Come on in, the water’s fine

There's something rather compelling about a large body of water. The ebb and flow of the river Ouse captivates me whenever I cross the bridge at the end of Cliffe High Street. Swans swim past when the tide comes in, large chunks of Barcombe float by when the tide goes out. I'm equally intrigued by the harbour at Newhaven, the shingle at Saltdean and the pier-and-a-half in Brighton. This is probably because my childhood was punctuated with family walks along the seafront at Worthing, often featuring one of my father's weather forecasts. "If you can see Brighton, it's going to rain", he'd say. "If you can't see Brighton, it's already raining." Eventually I got the joke, although I spent many years marvelling at dad's meteorological accuracy.

Here in land-locked Ringmer, we have nothing bigger than a pond. This is a relatively static body of water, disturbed only by the occasional misplaced cricket ball or empty can of extra-strength cider. I once saw a heron there. It looked disappointed.

We can also rustle up a couple of old water pumps, which are fascinating historical artefacts but don't work. We even have a few half-hearted tributaries from the Ouse making their way into the village. But we just don't have the volume of water that has inspired poets and artists through the ages. There is, quite frankly, very little romance to be found in a shallow ditch.

My first thought is to mount a campaign. Plans to allow Cuckmere Haven to flood have proved contentious... so let's move the focus inland. Maybe the football club would trade their pitch for an artificial lake. Better still, perhaps the controversial plans to develop Clay Hill reservoir could be revived and refocused on the village green. Ringmer would become the windsurfing capital of Sussex.

As I search the internet for inspiration, my mission takes on new urgency. I learn that a research study last year found people living in 'marine and coastal environments' were happier than those further inland. This means my quest for some kind of aquatic feature is an issue that should concern everyone. Not only do we like to be beside the seaside, our well-being actually depends on it.

And, dear Ringmer resident, I have finally found success. I have tracked down a large body of moving water on the edge of our village. Not the swimming pool. Not a dew pond. No, I've found something with considerably more volume and more movement.

In fact, it's full of movements. So forget about the river. Ignore the sea. Bring your deck chairs to Ringmer's sewage treatment plant. The air is undoubtedly bracing and it's not too crowded. Some might even say you'll be flushed with happiness.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine August 2014 and on VivaLewes.com 31st July 2014

Manure wanted

There's a sign by one of the allotments at Earwig Corner. "Manure wanted", it reads. It could, of course, be a genuine request from a person who doesn't have enough manure in their life. But I think it's a test. I reckon it's a cunning ploy to separate the townie from the country dweller. If you laugh, you're obviously an urbanite. However, if your response is along the lines of "that’s brilliant, I've got a huge pile of the stuff behind the barn", then you're a fully signed-up member of the rural community. Television presenter John Craven believes he's failed this test. In a recent interview about his role on the Countryfile TV programme, he said "I think of myself as very much a country person. Although I know I'll never be fully accepted. But I like to think, as we try to prove on the show, there’s room for everyone in the countryside" I think he's trying too hard. If he'd stuck with the brightly-patterned jumpers he wore for children's television instead of kitting himself out in practical weatherproof clothing, he'd have fitted right in.

John Craven suggests he’s been a bit of a bad omen for the countryside since he started presenting Countryfile. In his interview he lists some of the unpleasant diseases that have affected British livestock since 1989. Yet if Mr Craven is the pastoral black sheep, I reckon I’m the equivalent of a smiling Japanese cat with its paw raised. Since I arrived in Ringmer we’ve had a pizza takeaway appear, Ringmer Community College has had its best-ever exam results and the sun smiled on the village fair. No, you really don’t need to thank me.

What’s John doing wrong? Some would say the secret to fitting in round here is in the language. Forget about your alleyways, in Sussex they’re twittens. Middlin’ is a useful all-purpose adverb, verb or noun. Always pronounce Firle with two syllables. And don’t, whatever you do, say too much about being druv.

I’m not so sure. I think becoming part of village society is more about being yourself and not trying to impress. Leaning on a five-bar gate and chewing a piece of grass won't endear you to many people. I’ve not seen round here anyone take a deep breath and say “arrr” when there’s the smell of silage in the air. Finally, I’d recommend not trying to match Emmerdale’s baby-swapping gun-toting bed-hopping antics. That’s the kind of manure no-one needs.

First published on Viva Lewes 17th July 2014: vivalewes.com

Keeping it real in Ringmer

It's important not to lose touch with reality. At least, that's what Rupert the cat told me last week. We were chatting on our way back from the vet, where he’d been treated for fight-related injuries. Mind you, I understand that some people may not define 'important' and 'reality' in the same way as I do. Back when I worked for a big telecommunications company, I was convinced that any presentation I produced could be given a title from a country music song. When I needed an off-beat starting point, I'd look to Nashville for inspiration. "Flushed from the bathroom of your heart" was a particular triumph. Shortly after I implemented this major lyrical innovation, my job disappeared. I reckon someone stole my idea and then covered up the evidence. Crazy? That's exactly what Patsy Cline said.

Anyway, these days I'm keeping both feet firmly on the ground... and living in Ringmer is one of the ways I do this. It's certainly a dramatic contrast from my previous home. Before I moved here I lived in a West Sussex town with many tourists and almost enough gift shops to house them all on a rainy Saturday. A little like Lewes, some might say. I couldn't possibly comment.

We even had a 'lifestyle' shop that sold an impractical and unlikely combination of kitchen equipment, cosmetics, stationery, imported photo frames and expensive toys. Plus, of course, coffee and scented candles. Secretly I loved it.

In fact, I could have enjoyed afternoon tea in a different place every day for a month without having the same type of cake twice. That's how many coffee bars and tea shops there were. Budgetary constraints kept my blood-sugar levels stable, although I was tempted on several occasions.

Fortunately, the reality of Ringmer has saved me from myself... and from any similar temptation. There's only one bakery. You see, no-one would raise an eyebrow if I walked into a pub and the barman said "your usual, Mark?" before pouring a pint of Harveys. It's much less socially acceptable to be presented with a Belgian bun in a paper bag whenever you meet a baker. The embarrassment of being recognised as a frequent customer keeps my patisserie habit under control. You need to know when to walk away. Well, that's what Rupert says anyway. Or was it Kenny Rogers?

First published on Viva Lewes 3rd July 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com

Fathers figure

The pub in the middle of the village is decked in patriotic bunting. At least, I'm assuming the aim is patriotism. I'm also assuming the specific target of that patriotism is the England football team, despite Wikipedia telling me the cross of St George is "used extensively across Northern Italy". I hope there weren't too many homesick Italians seeking refuge there after the match last Saturday. It seems unlikely, given that a pizza delivery company is the only sign of Mediterranean culture I've noticed in Ringmer.

And then, on Sunday, the mood changed completely... but the pub remained busy. You could almost describe it as a 'perfect storm'. The combination of football's World Cup and Father's Day offered a unique opportunity for pub landlords. Dads were encouraged to spend two full days propping up the bar: one day with their mates, one day with their family. A balanced social life? Maybe.

Rather than watching football in a crowd, I stayed at home on the sofa with Rupert the cat. We had the TV on for the big game but - now Springwatch has finished on the BBC - there's nothing that quite grips us in the same way. When you've watched a 14-year-old cat stalking a tiny image of Bill Oddie, even the youthful enthusiasm of Raheem Sterling pales into insignificance. Fortunately the tweeting stopped and Mr Oddie disappeared before Rupert could embarrass himself by pouncing.

As for Father's Day, I'm one of those people who sadly no longer has a father to celebrate with. Actually, dad and I never observed the third Sunday in June as a special day. He thought it was a load of commercial nonsense; a sentiment I largely agree with. As a result, my sense of loss is tempered by the knowledge that at least I'm not being conned out of the price of a greetings card. I like to think it's his legacy, along with hereditary male-pattern baldness and a fondness for fried bread.

Yet as the pubs fill with men treating themselves and their offspring to a roast dinner, I'm left feeling a little lonely. I turn to the cat for inspiration. He's back on the sofa and gently prodding my cardigan with his front feet, as a kitten might. I think he wants a cuddle from his mum. Over here, mate. Shall we order a pizza?















First published on Viva Lewes 19th June 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com/

Time and motion

Whenever people from outside the local area ask me where I live, I usually tell them Ringmer is a village around three miles from Lewes. That’s not strictly true. If I was talking to a flying crow, they’d evaluate the journey at closer to two miles. Anyone looking at parish boundaries might view us as neighbours. It’s all a matter of perception. My uncertainty about distances was prompted by a visit from friends who are based in London. They don’t measure distances, they measure time. For them, it’s fifteen minutes between the office and their home. The mysteries of underground travel render straight-line measurements useless. They even suggested meeting in Uckfield because it was ten minutes closer. It’s not ten minutes if you’re cycling.

When watching TV shows made in the United States, I’ve noticed that city-dwellers quantify their journeys in ‘blocks’. That seems to be around a hundred yards, although building sizes will vary – which makes it about as much use as the ‘country mile’ my grandmother sometimes referred to. In fact, if any American visitors are reading this, I reckon there are twenty blocks to a country mile. I hope that helps.

Down in Eastbourne, a professor from the University of Brighton devised a series of ‘fitness walks’ that gave an idea of how much energy could be used by walking a few miles. I think something similar should be introduced for Lewes. You could plan a route between coffee shops that would result in the entire journey being calorie-neutral. Rather than saying “I’ll be there in thirty minutes”, you’d be measuring your journey as a skinny cappuccino and a digestive biscuit. A chocolate caramel from Laporte’s would probably get me all the way back to Ringmer. Of course, a precise calculation also depends on the person’s weight and the enthusiasm of their walking… which means it’s still a little vague.

As a child, I was – quite rightly – mystified by the trust some people put in egg timers. We use a ‘football pitch’ to describe large areas and we measure height in double-decker buses, despite neither being fixed. And when my brother went shopping for a new car, he assessed the size of the boot by checking how many golf bags it could hold. It all reminds me of the response offered by an engineer I once worked with. When we went for lunch, customers would sometimes ask how much time we’d be away. “An hour or more, whichever’s longer”, replied Len.

So I’m going to revise my description of Ringmer. I reckon I should describe it in terms that are more poetic, as befits its rural location. As well as measuring distance in country miles, my grandmother would also measure a brief moment of time as “two shakes of a lamb’s tale”. Obviously that’s just a fraction of a second – but given my average walking speed, particularly when offered cake as an incentive, I think Ringmer is around 10,000 lamb-tail shakes from Lewes. That’s pretty clear, isn’t it?

First published on Viva Lewes 5th June 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com/

Thinking out loud

When I was in my early 20s, I went on a 'better driving' course. Today you can claim something similar by whizzing past a speed camera at 37mph but I volunteered for this one. Six one-hour theory sessions with a police officer and an overhead projector, then a high-speed Sunday morning trip up the A23 in a squad car. I was most impressed. Until that point I'd never been in a vehicle with a leather interior.

Our instructor gave us a particularly useful tip from his own training. He'd been encouraged to commentate on his journey in order to increase his awareness. "There's a child on a bicycle ahead. They seem unsteady. The van at the junction may pull out." Not only can this technique improve your driving, it also offers an all-too-rare opportunity to impersonate Murray Walker. Just make sure the windows are closed.

I mention this commentary process because my mother's started doing it. Unfortunately, it's not when she's driving. We're sitting in a coffee shop when a couple of young mothers arrive at the table next to us. They park their pushchairs alongside. "Why does she need something enormous like that?", mum asks the room. "It's like a four-by-four." Unlike an episode of Miranda, no-one laughs. Admittedly the pushchair is relatively rugged-looking but that's probably because it's been designed not to sever fingertips or collapse spontaneously, neither of which were guaranteed by the prams of my youth.

On stage, the soliloquy is a perfectly acceptable dramatic device. In real life, it isn't. The novelty of innocent children describing their bowel movements wears off pretty quickly. I'll happily listen to TV programmes with Sir David Attenborough or David Bellamy explaining their steps through the undergrowth. I really don't want the same level of detail when I'm settling down to a skinny latte and a toasted bagel. Worse still, it might encourage other people to start doing the same thing. It would be like becoming telepathic but without any of the secrecy. Like a truth serum that everyone takes.

Let's face it, there are things that are best left unsaid. So if you hear me ranting in Tesco about the state of the world, please stop me unless I'm actually talking to a real person or wearing a mobile phone headset. And as for my writing... well, that's just between the two of us, isn't it?

First published on Viva Lewes 23rd May 2014: www.vivalewes.com

The village idiom

Are you a gentleman? That was the question posed by Country Life magazine last month. It also offered a series of commandments, ruling that a 'gentleman' is always on time, is happy with 'unfussy fare' such as an omelette, never forgets his wristwatch and doesn't own a cat. I'm not sure why anyone - ladies or gentlemen - would respond to an etiquette proclamation from a publication that declares itself 'the home of premium property' but plenty of people seem to have taken this relatively seriously. I didn't. I'm much more inclined towards the manifesto published by The Chap magazine, which includes "thou shalt always doff one's hat". Arguably it should be "thy hat" but I'll keep quiet because gentlemen don't split hairs.

Anyway, it's got me thinking about definitions: more specifically, the definition of a village. I often talk about Ringmer being a village - but where's my proof? I switch on my computer for clues. 'A village is larger than a hamlet but smaller than a town' says the internet. To help with this definition, it explains that a hamlet is smaller than a village. I've seen other suggestions that a village has a church but not a market: this sounds plausible but I can't find any convincing evidence.

So, in the absence of any firm rules, it's time for me to create some. Here's how you can tell whether or not you're living in a village.

1. In the centre of your community is a large grassy area with public access. You don't need to call it the 'village green', although this helps. Ideally a major road should run alongside it, making open-topped sports cars a valid target during cricket games.

2. The entire area smells of silage and/or manure for at least one day a year. Visitors who complain about the odour should simply be told "it's a country smell".

3. At least one resident parks a tractor outside their house on a regular basis. If a tractor isn't available, a pick-up truck with a sheep in the back is a suitable alternative.

4. You have a village hall. For comedy effect, it's preferable for the building to be uncomfortably small and dilapidated or brand-new and inappropriately large.

5. The number of pubs and the size of the local church give the impression that the village was once packed with hard-drinking worshippers.

6. One local person has a nickname that no-one knows the origin of.

7. A retired rock star or model lives within a 5-mile radius... and a friend of a friend once saw them buying cigarettes at the newsagents.

8. Award-winning food is available from at least one local shop. You secretly hope that Rick Stein will visit it for a new series of 'Food Heroes'.

9. Anyone who lives in a post-1960 house is taunted with talk of 'the old village' and how it's changed since the new development was built.

10. Whenever anyone from outside the village asks your address, you start by telling them the name of the nearest town instead.

Yes, according to my new definition, Ringmer is definitely a village. Oh, and if you happen to see Rick, please point him in our direction. Tell him we're a couple of miles up the road from Lewes. He just needs to follow his nose.

First published on Viva Lewes 8th May 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com/

A sluggish reaction

When it comes to unwanted visitors, my mother is one of the 22 percent. She's part of a sizeable group of people with a zero-tolerance approach to trespass. I don't agree with her perspective, even though I know she intends no harm. She simply wants to protect what she has from those that seek to destroy it. And if they venture too close to her... well, she'll throw them over the fence.

Yes, mum's a snail chucker. According to a recent Royal Horticultural Society survey, 22% of people questioned had thrown snails out of their gardens. In mum's case, they're not piling up in the neighbour's pond or landing on their conservatory roof but are arriving on some wasteland at the edge of the South Downs. This is a compromise I'm prepared to accept. Murderous slug pellets are not for her, nor the extraordinarily cruel salt cellar. As a result, I reckon her lettuce can still be described as ethically sound. Assuming, of course, you can find any lettuce that hasn’t been nibbled off at the root.

Here in Ringmer, I'm resigned to the presence of snails. In fact, I'm rather fond of them. Apparently they're keen on our shady flower beds. Because of this, delicate plants are kept in pots. Robust, foul-tasting shrubs are planted in our garden. Going outside on a damp evening requires either a torch or walking on tiptoes. When it's dark, I totter down the path like an untutored ballerina.

Unlike me, mum's not entirely happy with her snail situation. She's convinced that some of her expelled visitors are returning, albeit a little more tatty around the edges than when they left. I think she's probably right. A few years ago, an amateur researcher discovered that snails have a strong homing instinct. If moved thirty feet from their home, they could easily find their way back. Some could manage 100 yards without too much of a problem. Well, unless they were in a hurry.

I can see two solutions for mum. One involves treating those garden snails as the French might, served in garlic butter and accompanied by some of the salad they favour. Unpalatable in every sense, as far as I’m concerned. The other solution would require a catapult, which doesn’t seem a great deal better. Actually, I suppose there's a third option. Perhaps I should open a snail sanctuary.

First published on Viva Lewes 24th April 2014: www.vivalewes.com

 

It’s all in the mind

The border into West Sussex has been left unguarded, so I slip across to see mum. I’m starting to look out for any signs that her brain isn’t as sharp as it once was. Not that she’s given me any immediate cause for concern; it’s just that some of her contemporaries are suffering from assorted memory-related conditions. But how can I check whether she has an active mind?

When I arrive at mum’s house, I knock at the back door and walk in. I call out “hello”. She replies “I’m busy threading a needle with invisible cotton.” Oh dear. Is this an early sign? Is she preparing to make a new suit for the emperor? I breathe a sign of relief when I see the reel of transparent thread. She’s not lost the plot, she’s repairing some clothing.

I shouldn’t really worry. Mum’s not shown any signs of slowing down. Certainly not when she’s in the car, anyway. If you’re in anything less powerful than a Bugatti Veyron, she’ll leave you standing at the traffic lights. All this in a curiously tall vehicle that’s powered by a modified hairdryer.

But the real reassurance comes when we start talking. Mum’s been watching television coverage of Prince William and the Duchess of Cambridge visiting New Zealand. More specifically, she’s been watching young Prince George. She’s been suitably entertained, which is exactly as it should be. Apparently the Royal Family costs each of us 57p a year to maintain, so mum’s getting good value for money. One of her friends, however, has been critical. As a result, mum isn’t happy.

“She said little George should have been wrapped up warm when he came off that plane”, reports mum. “And he should have been wearing a hat to protect him from the sun.” The inconsistency has annoyed her as much as the denigration of Kate’s parenting skills.

There is, however, worse to come. “She’s been going on about that gay marriage, too. She says it means that brothers and sisters could end up marrying each other.” I struggle to make any sense of this statement. Fortunately mum’s been given an explanation. “She said gay couples could adopt children without knowing their backgrounds, so they could be brother and sister without realising, and then those children might get married.” Mum wasn’t having any of this nonsense. “I told them it was rubbish. Anyway, that Elton John and his partner have adopted two boys, so that couldn’t happen to them.”

“You should tell her it could now, mum. Now that the law’s changed. Two men can get married.” Mum smiles. It’s not a benign parental smile. It’s the smile of a mother who’s looking to cause trouble when she sees her friend again. Is it possible to have a mind that’s too active?

First published on Viva Lewes 10th April 2014: www.vivalewes.com

Who’s the talk of the town?

I'm increasingly famous... and it's no fun. While Chris Martin asks for privacy as he 'consciously uncouples', while George Michael does his best to dodge the paparazzi, I've discovered my own challenges. But this fame hasn't come from my music. No, it's come from deep within the virtual world of the internet. Let me explain.

There are two so-called social internet services I'm fairly keen on. One is Twitter, where I'll occasionally share a 140-character slice of my action-packed life with whosoever is reading. (Recent example: "I've been photographing eco-friendly cat litter scoops".) The other is Foursquare, which lets users 'check in' on their mobile phones and tell others where they are. From cafés to chemists, you can report where you are and add a photo or a few comments. "Why would you do that?", I hear someone ask. Hang on a moment, mother, I'm about to tell you.

There are, as far as I'm concerned, three reasons for using Foursquare. There's a good old-fashioned sense of self-importance. I'm still working on that one. There's the idea that you may be helping other people make decisions. Joining the cub scouts strengthened that feeling many years ago. And then there's the competitive element. You see, Foursquare has 'gamified' the process of checking in. If you check-in to a particular venue more than everyone else, you'll automatically be appointed 'mayor'. There's no chain of office, no extra responsibility and no recognition in the place itself, just the motivation of climbing to the top of the list. While anyone can add their house to Foursquare and become a legend in their own larder, it's easy to catch the bug and begin checking in wherever you go.

Which brings me to my fame. The Foursquare bug bit me a few years ago. Thanks to frequent visits and regular online check-ins, I'm currently the mayor of the corner shop in the village. At the moment my mobile phone tells me I'm also mayor of Lewes Tesco, mayor of Waitrose and mayor of an assortment of coffee shops across Sussex. In fact, I'm mayor of so many places that the novelty is wearing off. The game isn't fun any more. What can I do?

Well, I reckon I need to borrow a solution from real-world renown. It's time to take a break from checking in as much. Let my unelected rule lapse. Hide my phone and become an internet recluse for a while. And then, if I'm still interested, I can try to win back my crown. Yes, I’m going to stage a come-back tour.

First published on Viva Lewes 28th March 2014: www.vivalewes.com

The man with the golden croissant

I like living in Ringmer. As I've mentioned before, I reckon it's close enough to Lewes for me to enjoy the benefits of the town without subjecting me to any of its disadvantages.

However, there's one notable flaw in this plan. It's the croissant situation. Don't worry, we're not completely bereft of pastries here. Croissants are available in Ringmer... but only when the weekend arrives. It's as though a local bylaw prohibits their sale at the bakery except on a Saturday. Asking for one during the week prompts the kind of response usually reserved for someone ordering roasted ortolan in a vegetarian brasserie.

Therefore, if I ever want a mid-week cappuccino and a croissant, I need to travel beyond the parish boundary. Although I'll occasionally walk into Lewes when the weather is good, I'm most likely to rely on the 28 bus - or its lesser-known relative, the 143 - for a trip into town. To catch the bus, I simply leave home five minutes before it's due to turn up. At least, that's what I did when I originally moved to the village. These days I allow just two minutes. Some would say I'm getting lazy. I blame James Bond.

You see, I saw the latest Bond film when it was released in cinemas about 18 months ago. 'Skyfall' looked back at the fifty-year history of the 007 franchise while also preparing the audience for an equally lengthy future. And it did all this after making us sit through the longest set of on-screen advertisements since Pearl first met Dean. But commercial considerations aside, I was suitably entertained. Daniel Craig makes a compelling secret agent. He runs, fights and generally behaves exactly as an action-hero should... all while wearing a suit.

Which brings me back to the issue of catching the bus. Once, running for the bus would have made me look like a bit of a loser. I’d be a middle-aged bloke whose life was in disarray. Now, thanks to the work of Mr Craig, I'm the coolest man around. Even with a laptop under my arm and the power cable trailing behind me, I could be mistaken for an employee of MI6 rather than a chap whose watch is slow. Unfortunately I've not done the fitness training required by Her Majesty's Secret Service. Despite doing my best to maintain a stoic appearance, I'm a little shaken by the time I arrive at the bus stop. Similar to 007's vodka martini, you might say.

First published on Viva Lewes 13th March 2014: www.vivalewes.com

Gonna get myself connected

This is around the time of year when I usually spend a couple of days at a trade show in Barcelona. In fact, it’s exactly that time of year. I’m writing from my second-floor room at Pension Norma, which translates as ‘hotel rule’ according to my mobile phone. Either that’s very prosaic or my phone’s not really trying. My phone also tells me I’m 655 miles from the nearest pint of Harveys, so perhaps it’s simply feeling a little homesick.

It’s not only my phone that’s pining for Sussex. My wife, along with her teenager and cats, has remained at home. Despite the excitement of my trip, I miss them… and I’m sure they miss me. (Well, to be honest, three of them probably just miss my ability to fill a bowl with dinner at the appropriate time.) Fortunately I should be able to persuade the aforementioned phone to give them a ring.

If you’ve not spotted a theme here, let me explain. It’s going to be a phone-filled week because my chosen trade show is all about mobile technology. And whilst I’m not expecting a great deal of sympathy for my plight, I can assure you it isn’t all tapas and tortillas. There are early starts, crowded trains and traffic queues to contend with before I begin my work for the day. If I’d wanted that kind of nonsense, I’d have found a job in London.

Inside the show, I’m one of eighty-five thousand people milling about. Each exhibitor is doing their best to attract my attention and extend my stay. Curiously, each seems determined to reinforce national stereotypes as well. My conversation with an Austrian company includes a cup of coffee and a marzipan Mozartkugel. The Scottish contingent is hosting an evening of whiskey tasting. A French company has wine while a German exhibitor has employed two Spanish women to wear traditional Bavarian clothing. There’s tea and biscuits when I talk to an English software developer. I chat to him until the biscuits run out.

Back in my hotel room, when the buzz of the show has faded, I call home and catch up with the latest news. All’s well. After saying goodnight, I check for email messages and prepare my agenda for tomorrow. Don’t get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoy the event – but I’d enjoy it even more if a Spanish day included 36 hours and my hotel room contained a teleporter instead of a wardrobe. I open the Harveys app on my phone again. Still 655 miles from a pint. I walk across the room and stand next to the window. The display changes. 654 miles. I’m feeling better already.

First published on Viva Lewes 27th February 2014: www.vivalewes.com

Looking down on creation

My broadband connection has slowed to a speed that still permits me to work but rules out the possibility of downloading any cat videos. As far as I'm concerned, the internet might as well be broken. It reminds me of the days when I had a dial-up modem plugged into the telephone line, when sending an email was always accompanied by a noise that sounded rather like The Clangers singing barbershop harmony. Before long I may need to find my mother’s old typewriter - stored in the 'things that might be valuable one day' box, along with a couple of blown TV valves and a mechanical cassette tape rewinder - and soak its desiccated ribbon in a bottle of ink. Or perhaps not. I'd probably better stop reminiscing before I start to sound like Rick Wakeman, who's becoming better known for his grumpy-old-man views on body piercing than for playing a prog rock tribute to Henry VIII’s wives.

This technological blip has resulted from living in a village rather than a town, I'm certain. Whilst Lewesians can enjoy super-fast broadband that arrives down translucent fibre-optic cables, we villagers are still reliant on wires that are made from... well, wire, I suppose. You could almost think that broadband providers didn't care about us.

It prompted me to remember a newspaper report I saw a few weeks ago. A recent study at Oxford University touched on the topic of 'short person syndrome', which is the phrase often used to describe someone who appears to be compensating for their below-average height with an aggressive or dominant personality. Researchers created a 'virtual reality' experience that made volunteers appear to be on a crowded tube train where everyone else was much taller than they would have been in real life. It seems the result was an increase of negative feelings and mistrust. It provided useful insight into treating paranoia... but that won't get in the way of a good headline. "Short person syndrome is real", shouted several newspapers, delighting in the opportunity to confirm another stereotype.

All this had me wondering whether there was a similar condition of 'small village syndrome' affecting us here in Ringmer. While many of our local businesses can more than hold their own against the 'big boys' in town, woe betide anyone who suggests any of the facilities here aren't as impressive as those elsewhere. Some may even say a few of those 'big boys' were trying to steal away business from local traders. Are they really ganging up on us?

I put the 'small village syndrome' theory to my wife. "That's rubbish", she told me sensitively. "Ringmer is actually one of the largest villages in Sussex." I dug around in the 'things that might be valuable one day' box and found an Ordnance Survey map. Ringmer certainly does look pretty large. Hang on a moment. The village is 40 metres above sea level. Ha!  We're taller than you.

First published on vivalewes.com 13th February 2014: www.vivalewes.com

Just the ticket

I'm waiting to catch the bus home. I've just missed the number 28 bus to Ringmer, which now seems really pleased with itself. This is clear from the enthusiastic behaviour I've recently observed. You see, every half an hour the bus arrives outside Waitrose after driving down Market Street and past both ends of East Street. Having collected its passengers - sometimes kneeling to help those less-agile travellers - it then does a victory lap by heading up School Hill and away from Ringmer before going back down Market Street again. Yes, I’m sure that’s a victory lap. It's the kind of celebration you don't usually see unless you’re at a Grand Prix circuit. Much as I'm inclined to commend anyone who enjoys their job, it seems a bit extreme. If this sort of showboating is allowed to continue, there'll be drift-racing round the bus station before long.

Perhaps it's pleased at having seen off a young upstart. Just over a year ago we were blessed with the appearance of hybrid buses on the 28 route. These weren't hybrids in the same sense as a labradoodle or a centaur. No, they were definitely all bus. However, they had an electric motor as well as a conventional diesel engine, which meant less pollution and generally 'greener' credentials. They would even announce the name of the next stop. Most impressively, they moved away from a bus stop relatively quietly before the main engine started. Not actually 'silently', mind you. These buses weren't likely to sneak up on you like a mischievous whale; more like a giant Scalextric car, really.

Sadly, I've not seen those high-tech hybrid buses in Ringmer for a while. I'm told it's because they're more efficient on shorter stop/start trips rather than the marathon journey to our village. Oh well. At least I can talk to myself on the top deck without being interrupted by an invisible conductor.

As I look up from my daydreaming, I spot another 28 bus pulling away from me. Drat. I've already had one free Waitrose coffee, so I don't want to wait another 30 minutes. The bus begins its little dance around the town centre. Hang on a moment. Here’s an idea. I reckon I can just about sprint to the bus stop outside Tesco while it's messing about. Running my own victory lap, you might say.

First published on vivalewes.com 23rd January 2014: www.vivalewes.com

Focussing on the future

There's no escaping the past. It trails behind each of us like a scarf that's just about to fall out of your coat pocket into a puddle. Excuse me a moment while I pick up my soggy woollen snake and wrap it nonchalantly around my shoulders. No-one noticed, did they?

As far as I'm concerned, the recent past contains too many mince pies and not enough exercise. Yet distant events can leave an even longer-lasting impression. Taking a pastry-fuelled walk round the streets of Ringmer reveals much of the village's history through its street names. There's Springett Avenue, which carries the family name of Gulielma Springett. She married William Penn, who founded the state of Pennsylvania in the USA. Another American link can be seen in Harvard Road and Sadlers Way, celebrating the husband and wife (John and Ann) who established Harvard University. I am literally following the path of history. Maybe generations in the future will talk of Scarfpuddle Lane, where I once trod.

Yes, I'm in a philosophical mood… but I don’t think it’s just me. At this time of year we all tend to spend more time than usual thinking about events that have happened in the previous 12 months. Reviews of 2013, news quizzes, anniversaries, that kind of thing. Many of us then start to regret what we've done and make plans to be better people. These resolutions tend to fall into two nonsensical categories: giving up things we enjoy (for example, starting a diet) or doing things we don't enjoy (such as visiting the gym). And we wonder why most resolutions fail. I've done a little bit of research and have found that most advice for keeping resolutions can be boiled down to two simple tips. If we expect our resolutions to work, we need to set specific goals and tell other people what they are. Not simply "get fit" but "do a 40-minute workout twice a week". That kind of thing. And so I've decided on my own unambiguous, timely and public-facing resolution for 2014. I'm giving up mince pies until November.

First published on vivalewes.com 9th January 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com/focussing-on-the-future/