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/