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/