Huuuuur. Huuuuur. An unfamiliar rattling sound stirs me from my weekend lie-in. I'm just about to check Mrs B's airways before I realise the noise is coming from outside, not from my sleeping wife. One of our neighbours is mowing his lawn. Winter is officially over... as is any hope of an extra half-hour in bed. Time to put the kettle on.
Rural life has many benefits - but don't make the mistake of thinking it's all twittering skylarks, fragrant wild flowers and slow-moving Morris Minors around here. In fact, I reckon Lionel Richie would never have written the lyric 'Easy like Sunday Morning' if he'd been living in Ringmer. Certainly not if he'd relied on public transport. Instead of a gentle ballad we'd probably have something rather more frantic, inspired by Lionel nervously checking his watch and wondering whether he'd end up jogging down the new cycle path because he'd missed the hourly bus. Neither would Lionel have been particularly relaxed if he was within earshot of the village church, where one of the bells has cracked. Apparently this isn't covered by the manufacturer's warranty, despite being barely 130 years old. The offending bell currently sounds like an ancient tin bath being struck with an equally elderly saucepan, which is why it's staying quiet at the moment. The other seven bells are still being rung but the eighth is conspicuous by its absence. No, there's nothing especially easy about Sunday mornings in this part of the world.
But all this pales into insignificance when Mrs B wakes. She has a Garden Centre look in her eyes. Unfortunately it's not a 'nice mug of coffee and a bowl of soup' trip that she has in mind. In the time it took me to pop downstairs and make a cup of tea, she’s prepared a shopping list. It looks like a medieval incantation to rid one's husband of distemper, although she assures me it's merely a few Latin plant names and some organic fertiliser. My wife is the one with green fingers; my gardening performance is more akin to a Vulcan nerve pinch, inadvertently rendering plants into unconsciousness with the effortless technique of Mr Spock. It’s usually safest if I stick to digging and weeding. And with spring in the air, Mrs B’s seasonal interest in gardening will soon broaden to include other activities I’m just as poor at. There’ll be unfathomable colour charts for interior decoration. There may even be talk of choosing new cushions.
All this leaves me a long way outside my comfort zone, so there’s only one thing left to do. One last desperate attempt to escape all these challenges. Something that’ll outclass my neighbour’s garden-tidying efforts, too. Most importantly, it’s traditional. It’s a ritual that’s been passed from generation to generation since the dawn of history. It’s a Sunday morning routine that unites communities. It’s time I went to the tip.
First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 103 April 2015.
