My own Scandinavian drama

It's Saturday morning. I've fed the cats downstairs and have returned to the bedroom with cups of tea for me and Mrs B. "We could get the Nordic look", she says, unexpectedly. She's checking email in bed on her iPhone, which is wrong on any number of levels. "What's the Nordic look?", I ask. "Hang on", she replies, "I'm just about to find out". There's a pause while my wife taps her phone. "It's furniture like IKEA", she tells me, "but from M&S". I'm relieved. "We've already got the look", I say. Our tall, thin bathroom cabinet is actually an IKEA CD rack, although I'd not previously realised this meant we owned a Scandinavian-style bathroom. In case you're wondering, the height of a toilet roll is remarkably similar to the height of a CD case. Not only do they fit perfectly, I'm the only person in the house who can reach the emergency supply on the top shelf. My wife is not convinced. "No, we haven't. It's sofas. That one I liked has been reduced." I'm relieved again. We have a total of three sofas. The house is full, as far as I'm concerned. Still, I'm sensing a trap. "Are we short of sofas?" There's an exasperated sigh as my wife shows me the screen of her phone. "That's nice", I tell her, before using the emergency phrase I keep ready for all design-related concerns. "Very on-trend for the season."

Traditionally this is the time of year in which I rail against the ever-extending commercial Christmas period. (My mother's preferred garden centre started putting its decorations up at the end of September, barely beyond the last few days of summer.) However, this year I have a new target for my protests. It's hygge, which most so-called lifestyle magazines tell me is the Danish word for cosiness, as though we Brits aren't capable of understanding the concept without a bit of cultural appropriation. Surely that's an over-simplification, otherwise my comfy cardigan and fleecy slippers would make me a fashion icon – and that, frankly, is implausible. I needed an authentic Danish perspective on the subject, so I asked Copenhagen-born comedian Sandi Toksvig OBE what she thought about hygge. Well, I didn't so much 'ask' as watch a recent episode of QI on television, in which she offered an explanation. Her lengthy definition was "to get together with your friends usually in candlelight and to feel really mellow and enjoy yourself and in general that involves alcohol". It all sounds very appealing, yet it also sounds familiar. Friends, beer, relaxing, candles, no mention of the internet or TV... oh yes. It's not a traditional Danish custom after all. This is exactly what tends to happen in Ringmer when there's a power cut for more than 30 minutes. If only we had a decent sofa to snuggle on.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 123 December 2016

Trying to help

I’m no Nostradamus but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if this year’s Lewes Bonfire celebrations featured an effigy of Donald Trump straddling a nuclear weapon, rather like Slim Pickens in the film Dr Strangelove. Then again, there are plenty of local issues that have caused upsets during the past 12 months. Perhaps we’re more likely to see someone astride a railway carriage.

Yes, it’s that time of year again. The time of year when we Ringmer residents adopt a supportive role for our neighbours. November sees our village retreating into the flickering shadows as Lewes welcomes – if ‘welcomes’ isn’t too strong a word – thousands upon thousands of visitors. On 5th November, Ringmer becomes an unofficial park-and-ride site. Dozens of people heading south into Lewes take the opportunity to dump their cars outside the shops and pick up the bus. I’m sorely tempted to start my own taxi service, just for one night.

Recently I’ve been lending a hand even closer to home. In fact, I’ve nominated myself as Head of Operations whenever our grandson comes to visit. Before he arrives, I move the television remote control onto a shelf and hide Rupert the cat under a pile of cushions. And when he leaves, I tidy up – which is surprisingly upsetting. Not because the house is suddenly silent, except for an almost imperceptible feline sigh of relief. No, it’s because most of the boy’s toys have some kind of electronic element, which means virtually every one laughs or applauds ironically when I move it. It's like a scene from Poltergeist, except the possession is battery-powered rather than demonic. Almost inevitably, as I carry the repacked box of toys out of the lounge, a digital voice from the bottom of the collection will shout “yay”.

Arguably I’m sometimes a little too inclined to help others. One particularly traumatic incident happened several years ago, when I met a worm that was heading across the pavement towards the road. Towards an unpleasantly sudden demise, I thought. Now, I wouldn’t usually touch a worm – apparently it hurts them – but desperate times called for desperate measures. There was a six-foot wall surrounding the nearest garden, so I picked up the worm and flung it over the wall. Instead of reaching the lawn, it landed in the branches of a small tree, with the force of my throw causing the worm to wrap around itself like a bolas hurled by an Argentinian cowboy. Even from a distance, I was pretty sure I could sense its annoyance. So perhaps that worm is a modern-day fable. Perhaps it was a way of telling me that trying to help isn’t always appreciated, even if you’re certain you can make the world a better place. Or perhaps it’s telling me that I should practise my throwing. I have a grandson to entertain, after all.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 122 November 2016

Eel meat again?

There's often a very fine dividing line between ‘enough’, 'plenty' and 'too much'. Some news stories celebrate the diversity of the UK's population while others warn of a cultural invasion. The proverb tells us a single straw can break a camel's back. Tickling stops being funny after a while. My own experience of this tipping point doesn't involve immigration, overloaded dromedaries or physical comedy but the consumption of pizza. Some years ago, there was a trend for restaurants to promote 'all the pizza you can eat' evenings when business would otherwise be quiet. I attended some of these almost-spiritual gatherings in Brighton with my friends, starting with the simple Margherita before moving on to spicy pepperoni for a main course and then something unusual – perhaps chicken and cranberry pizza, if the chef had been feeling creative – for dessert. On occasion, we'd repeat the process before leaving. However, at some point there'd come a time when you realised you'd eaten enough, when your stomach had reached capacity, and you'd vow to call it a day after the current slice. It was usually at this point that a fresh batch of pizza would emerge from the kitchen and you'd spot a previously unsampled flavour. Could it be Hawaiian? Thanks very much. Fortunately those days of stupidity are behind me. Not mine; I mean that pizza restaurants are more responsible these days. And besides, I can't see Ringmer's visiting wood-fired pizza van needing to promote its business with such a deal on Tuesday evenings.

I seem to remember history lessons suggesting that Henry I - youngest son of favourite Sussex invader William the Conqueror - might have enjoyed unlimited pizza. The king is reputed to have died after eating an excessive amount of eel-like lampreys in December 1135. "He toke a surfet by etynge of a laprey", wrote Robert Fabyan, who could have done with a spell-check and a sub-editor. Lady Callcott's Little Arthur’s History of England adds detail, telling us that Henry ate so many potted lampreys – 'potting' preserved them under a layer of fat – that he became ill and died. It's also been said that the lampreys were probably served in a pie; seasoned with nutmeg and placed on a layer of butter, then covered with bay leaves and some more butter before being baked and, yes, topped up with extra butter. Makes a grande mochaccino with cream look positively healthy.

Yet a little more research suggests that events aren't as clear-cut as they first appear. 12th-century historian Henry of Huntington – writing three hundred years before Robert Fabyan – just tells us the king ate lampreys against the advice of his doctor. No mention of a surfeit whatsoever; a message that seems to have been added later as a warning against overindulgence. If anything, I'd say this story now proves the opposite. There's one thing you can't have too much of - and that's information.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 121 October 2016

Teach your children well

"You're this week's number one girl
But one girl will never do"

That’s part of the chorus to ‘This Week's Number One’, a song started but never quite finished in the 1980s by teenaged songwriter Mark Bridge. Yes, me. I’ll be honest, the title was a cynical attempt to increase potential sales. I imagined hordes of my pop-loving contemporaries walking into their local record shops and being given a copy of my single after saying “I'd like this week's number one, please”.

There are three points to be made here. Firstly, although it may have seemed unlikely at the time, I have subsequently become a professional writer and – thanks to this very column – can now describe myself as a published songwriter, too. (So ‘yah boo sucks’ to the kid who laughed at me back then, just in case he’s moved to Lewes.) And secondly, my younger self clearly didn't have a clue about real life, did he?

At this stage I’d like to cite Elton John's Part-Time Love and Stevie Wonder's Part-Time Lover to emphasise my third point. I have clearly been influenced by the songs of my youth. Educated by them, you might say. And I'm sure I'm not the only person with such influences. As I’ve grown older – and smarter, I hope – I’ve treated my entertainment as entertainment, not as a behavioural guide. Just as well, really, when you consider that I grew up with Benny Hill on prime-time television. Fortunately I preferred the work of Frank Sinatra, whose apparently effortless style involved him hitting each note a millisecond before it was too late, and Buddy Greco, a man who chuckled to himself like a naughty schoolboy during the introduction of almost every song. While my school friends adopted role models like surgeon Christiaan Barnard, a remarkable man who transplanted an extra ‘a’ into his first name to keep it working longer, I was endeavouring to model myself after musicians who didn’t take themselves seriously.

This irreverence has stayed with me. Fast-forward to the first time I heard Eminem’s The Marshall Mathers LP. I laughed out loud. As far as I'm concerned, the song Who Knew had the same shock-value humour as Julian Clary's ‘Norman Lamont’ line or Stan Boardman and the Fokke joke. (If I’ve lost you here, you’ll find the answers on YouTube. Please don’t look if you’re at work or before the children have gone to bed.)

However, amongst all the comedy and the deliberately offensive material there’s also important stuff to be learned from song lyrics. Take Anita Bell’s 1979 locally-inspired chart-topping song of female empowerment, for example. Backed by an electronic drum and the sound of chimes she repeats her upbeat message: You Can, Ringmer Belle.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 120 September 2016

Animal crackers

One of my mother’s friends turns the television off whenever Springwatch is broadcast because there's too much sex and death in each programme. (I imagine she isn't watching the BBC’s new drama Versailles either, for the same reasons.) I also find the natural world is often a sad place, but my chosen solution is to crack inappropriate jokes. With that in mind, here are a couple of true tales about creatures I’ve encountered locally.

My most recent brush with nature in Ringmer happened when I was driving over the hill to Glynde on Tuesday. A young pheasant wandered out from the undergrowth and turned to face me with what I assumed to be a puzzled expression. Fortunately there was time for me to brake and steer round it. They’re not clever birds, are they? Mind you, their lack of depth perception doesn’t do them any favours. I wonder how long it’ll be before pheasants start to evolve with large forward-facing eyes, like owls or tarsiers. Until then, the idea of people hunting them with guns seems mismatched. May I propose a more evenly-balanced form of pheasant-based sport, in which the hunters stand on the bonnet of a moving Land Rover with a Victorian butterfly net? Rather like fly fishing, you could release the creatures afterwards. They might even learn from their experience.

If you prefer your animals to be more closely managed, I’d recommend a visit to Raystede, the rescue centre on the edge of Ringmer. I have a soft spot for Raystede. Well, they cooked my dog a few years ago. You may prefer 'cremated' but I need that dark humour to deflect the realities of life and its apparently inevitable end. Ringo was a dear little Jack Russell terrier, crisped up after nineteen glorious years and sprinkled on the South Downs. Joking apart – which is rare for me – the whole distressing affair was handled very sensitively.

I'm not a dog owner these days. Neither am I a cat owner, although I am a cat feeder. And something of a drug dealer as far as my feline friend Rupert is concerned; he's been prescribed furosemide and benazepril hydrochloride to help with his dodgy heart, which involves me wrapping each tablet in a tiny parcel of ham to make it more palatable. Not so much a cocktail of drugs, more a medicated amuse-bouche.

But now I must take you back to my car journey. Returning down the road from Glynde, there was no sign of the young pheasant I’d avoided. Instead, I noticed a couple of magpies on the road. Could this be an omen of good luck, I wondered. Then I saw they were paying great attention to a pheasant-shaped stain on the tarmac. Someone’s not been so lucky. But look on the bright side, I told myself. That might not have been the pheasant I originally saw. It could have been its flat-mate.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 119 August 2016

Chewing over gastro-tourism

At the end of May, my wife and I spent a week in one of our favourite holiday destinations: the fishing town of Padstow in Cornwall. As I sat by the edge of the harbour with a warm Cornish pasty in a paper bag, gently batting seagulls away with my free hand, a logo on the bag reminded me that my lunch was actually a product with Protected Geographical Indication status across Europe.

That meant, amongst other things, it had to be made in Cornwall otherwise it couldn't legally be called a Cornish pasty. It needed to be D-shaped and crimped along one side, not with the crimping on the top like a stegosaurus or a Klingon warrior. Inside I could expect to find beef, potato, swede and onion but no other vegetables and no artificial additives. Neither a carrot nor a sprinkling of monosodium glutamate were permitted.

Clotted cream and sardines also have similar protection in Cornwall. This got me thinking about unique delicacies I can enjoy here at home. Our bakery in Ringmer produces the Jack & Jill bun, which doesn't just contain dried fruit but is topped with icing and jam as well. The intriguing Val’s Purse is on the menu at the Cock Inn. Our butcher, Lew Howard, is renowned for his tasty sausages. Café Ringmer offers a cross-cultural collection of cooked breakfasts. We have an acclaimed Indian restaurant, an award-winning chip shop and two other pubs – each producing their own specialities. In fact, I reckon there’s enough exclusive cuisine to justify an entire TV series hosted by a celebrity chef. If that was ever broadcast, you’d soon see coach-loads of tourists driving straight past Lewes and heading up the hill to visit us and try our food. There’d be so many out-of-towners that takeaway pizzas would need to be ordered at least a fortnight in advance. Next, there’d be a campaign to turn Ringmer into one of those protected areas for agriculture and food. Before long the whole world would know about the high quality of our local fare.

Except there's a catch. You see, although true Cornish pasties need to be made in Cornwall, they don't need to be baked there. They can be assembled within the county and then cooked somewhere else. And that's why I think we should keep quiet about the goodies available to eat in Ringmer. If we don't, there'll be Jack & Jill buns for sale around the globe. Everyone will know what’s in Val’s Purse. Our special treats won't be special any more. So the next time you buy particularly good local food, don’t share it with anyone else. Better still, clear your plate and have a second portion. It’s the only way we can keep the secret to ourselves.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 118 July 2016

Mallets Aforethought

Tradition is a strange thing. Sometimes it leaves us with events that seem ill-suited to the modern age, such as torch-wielding Zulu warriors marching through the streets of Lewes. And sometimes it makes us wonder why circumstances ever changed. The Busy Bee garage in Ringmer falls into the latter category: a place where you can fill up with petrol, get your car fixed and even buy a new one. It seems strange that anybody would want to disconnect those three activities into separate sites, particularly when there's the opportunity of picking up a packet of fruit pastilles at the same time. Yet this type of all-in-one establishment is almost an anachronism in a world where vehicles are now sold in megastores, petrol comes from a supermarket and you're not allowed to open the bonnet of your own car without signing a disclaimer.

Opposite the garage is the Cheyney Field, home to another tradition. It's where Cheyney Croquet Club plays a game that can trace its roots back around 400 years. I really can't see why a mallet-based pastime isn't more popular. It sounds like the kind of sport that should be an integral part of every macho stag weekend, alongside quad-bike racing in Estonia and an impromptu session of British Bulldog at the airport. Anyway, if you're interested in learning more, there's an open day at the club on Sunday 5th June, which just happens to be National Croquet Day.

These two venues on the B2192 have been on my mind recently because I’ve sailed past them on the number 28 bus. I’m a big fan of public transport, even though it seems a little incongruous when double-deckers squeeze through the bottleneck outside Tom Paine’s house. One of the reasons for my fondness is the cost: a £3.40 return from Ringmer to Lewes is less than a couple of hours’ parking on the High Street. It’s more relaxing than the precision-timing required when trying not to exceed the limits of free supermarket parking. And I can claim a complimentary newspaper as part of my bus trip. You may be surprised how long you can sit in Caffe Nero if your empty coffee cup is hidden behind the Metro showbiz section.

But my main reason for not driving into Lewes is self-preservation. Tradition has gifted the town with attractive narrow streets of terraced cottages. Here in Ringmer, we're blessed with new-fangled architectural features, including driveways for almost every house and roads that are wide enough for two vans to pass without snapping off their door mirrors like a pair of rutting stags. What Ringmerite would choose to venture into a place where every car bumper is as scuffed as a child's football boot? Not without a warning sign on their vehicle, anyway. I’d recommend something along the lines of 'Watch out - I play croquet'.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 117 June 2016

Finding festivals on the doorstep

Writing on the subject of festivals from a Ringmer perspective is a bit of a challenge. Well, I really don't want to embarrass any of you Lewesians with the wealth of riches we have next door. The Lewes Live music festival? I reckon that’s almost entirely our side of the parish boundary. Glyndebourne Festival? Definitely closer to Ringmer than it is to Lewes. Love Supreme? Yup, same again. And that's before I start talking about Ringmer's scarecrow festival, the football festival, the dance festival and the earwig festival. (Okay, I made that last one up but I’m hoping for a sizeable percentage of t-shirt sales if it ever happens.)

Curiously, we also manage to promote our events without reverting to what's become a ubiquitous means of communication across Lewes. Whilst we Ringmerites stay in touch by phone, Royal Mail, newsletter, text message, Whatsapp, Snapchat and semaphore, it seems the only way to get your message across in Lewes is by printing it on a piece of A4 paper, laminating it and fixing it to a lamppost with cable ties or plastic ribbon. These notices are often seen hanging in place long after the relevant event has passed, with nothing but acid rain and casual vandalism to help them degrade. In the aftermath of the forthcoming robot apocalypse, when automated microscopic vacuum cleaners have tidied away the last remnants of humanity and the only remaining lifeform on the planet is a cockroach crossed with a Jack Russell terrier, I reckon the bus stop outside Waitrose will still be festooned with rainbow-coloured printouts advertising a pop-up Shamanic yoga weekend.

And then there’s the fashion. As far as I’m concerned, wellington boots are practical – albeit occasionally uncomfortable – footwear for especially wet or muddy situations. You put them on when the weather demands it… and you remove them when they’re not needed. Wellingtons are no more suitable for all-day wear than pyjamas or mittens. How they’ve become some kind of festival uniform escapes me. Yet switch on any TV coverage of summer festivals and you’ll see crowds of people wearing little more than beachwear but accessorising it with rainbow-patterned plastic boots and a crown of plastic flowers. Inexplicably, there’s even a trend for getting married in this sort of clothing. (Just search for ‘festival wedding’ on your favourite tax-paying internet search engine and you’ll see what I mean.) Personally, I think it’s actually an excuse for scaring elderly relatives away.

Still, enough of my ranting. Festivals are supposed to be about celebration. I may not understand your desire to carry a fluorescent pennant on a five-metre bendy flagpole but I shall rejoice in your decision regardless. Just as long as you’re not standing in front of me. I’m the guy in the dinner jacket, obviously.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 116 May 2016

A tale of two homes

I'm out for lunch with mum. As we walk into our chosen cafe, next to the bowling green by the retirement flats, I'm assailed by a high-pitched wailing sound. Mum appears not to have noticed. Initially I assume it's one of those mosquito-noise deterrents that only young people can hear. But, as we walk closer to the counter, the source becomes obvious. It's the whistling of several hearing aids, all generating feedback at high volume while their wearers remain oblivious.

We order food, I grit my teeth and we finish our meals, then I take mum home. When we arrive, she points out a patched-up hole in the garden fence. "I've put some food out for the rats", mum tells me. It's a military-grade euphemism that’s only a whisker away from saying she’d called in ground support with minimum collateral damage. These rats aren’t being given a picnic. They're being poisoned… and not in a nice way (if, indeed, it's possible to poison someone nicely). The anticoagulants in the bait mean their demise is not far removed from the scene in Live and Let Die where James Bond force-feeds Dr Kananga with a capsule of compressed air. Yes, I have a soft spot for rats. Mind you, I don’t have them living in my neighbour’s shed and popping round for breakfast.

I arrive back in Ringmer with a jar of mum’s home-made marmalade to distract me from my rodent worries. My wife likes neither rats nor marmalade. “I don't know how you can eat that stuff”, says Mrs B. “It's sweet. It's bitter. And it's got lumps of orange in it. That's my 'food hell'. I hate it so much, if I'm ever on Saturday Kitchen and I'm asked what food I can't bear, I'd have to choose something else. Perhaps mint sauce. I like mint sauce. They'd never find out, anyway.”

That evening we're sitting on the sofa, separated by the snoring form of Rupert the cat, whilst debating whether or not to watch a black comedy on television. I've voted against, on the grounds I don't want to see people die in faux-amusing ways. Mrs B calls me a sensitive soul, which somehow sounds like criticism. "They're not real people", she insists. "These are characters played by actors. No-one's really dying." Once again my compassion is in vain. After 15 minutes of the show, my wife turns to me. “You needn’t have worried. There’s no chance of you liking any of these people, is there?” She’s right, although it doesn’t help. If I like a character, I don't want to watch their comedic demise. If the characters aren't sympathetic, I'm not interested in watching them at all. In many ways life would be much easier if I could simply turn my hearing aid off.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 115 April 2016

Searching for reality in Ringmer

When I was a child, I liked to read comics. They helped make me the person I am today. I learned dog-training from Dennis the Menace and Gnasher, I learned social interaction from the Bash Street Kids and I learned feminism from Pansy Potter, the Strongman's Daughter. But it was The Numskulls that made me question the very fabric of reality. In this cartoon strip, six tiny people lived inside a man's head, controlling his thoughts and his body. It's a concept that was refined by Pixar for last year's animated film Inside Out, which featured five colourful emotions inside the brain of an 11-year-old girl.

Whilst The Numskulls were never going to win points for biological accuracy, they certainly scored highly when it came to surrealism. Brainy - the leader, naturally - worked in a room with a teleprinter and a suggestion box. In the mouth, Alf and Fred (whose names sounded as old-fashioned to me as 'teleprinter' does today) would break up food with pickaxes. There was a Numskull behind the eyes, one for the ears and another for the nose. Fortunately, everything else seemed to take care of itself. As I grew older, I swapped my comics for science-fiction, where I discovered more simulated reality in the stories of Ray Bradbury and Philip K Dick, and in assorted films, from Tron to The Thirteenth Floor.

All this helps explain why I'll happily argue that time isn't necessarily linear (which means I'll never miss a deadline again) and colours only exist inside your brain (no more mismatched socks). You may disagree with me, of course. But it's unlikely you'd suggest sending me to the Ringmer Asylum. Back in the mid-19th century, that could have been a very real threat.

In 1829, a couple of years after the Royal Horse Artillery had vacated its Ringmer barracks, the buildings were turned into what was described as a lunatic asylum. It was privately owned, charging its patients the equivalent of 75p per week. Records show that 20 patients were there in 1830, with eleven being restrained during the day and six at night. (I’d like to think the night-time restraint was nothing more than a particularly heavy duvet, similar to the 16.5 tog behemoth that Mrs B uses to keep me subdued in the winter.) Over the next 25 years, the Commissioners in Lunacy reported that conditions improved and then declined. Eventually, in 1855, Ringmer Asylum closed when the proprietor died. Today, the cries of patients have been replaced by barking, as some of those former barracks buildings are now kennels for the Southdown & Eridge Hunt. Mind you, I reckon I could probably stop the barking quite easily. If those hounds ever gneed extra training, I have gnumerous tips from a gnotable source.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 114 March 2016

Making your own entertainment

Last month I walked from Ringmer to Lewes, leaving at the same time as the 28 bus and arriving in town several minutes ahead of it. This was, admittedly, at the time of the Great Isolation, when roadworks on Malling Hill had reduced traffic flow to a crawl. Nevertheless, I felt victorious. Only the disappointment of a light drizzle as I walked past Waitrose prevented me from striking a pose like Usain Bolt and shouting "I am Bridge, master of all delays. Yield to me, you lingering commuters".

Some might say that's a sign I need to get out more. They'd say I'm living in a fantasy world, having conversations with myself. Nonsense, I reply. And I should know: a long, long time ago I was virtually king of Ringmer.

Okay, I'm exaggerating slightly. Back in 2014, which is indeed ancient in internet years, I was unofficial mayor of the corner shop in the village. And mayor of my local pub, too. This was thanks to an online service called Foursquare, which let you monitor the number of times you visited almost any destination. The most frequent visitor in any given time period - both fairly arbitrary designations - was automatically named 'mayor' until they were ousted by someone else. If you're not familiar with Foursquare, I can probably guess what you're thinking. It's something along the lines of "What's the point, Mark?"

There were, as far as I'm concerned, three reasons for using Foursquare. You gained a completely inappropriate sense of self-importance. You helped other people make decisions based on your recommendations. And then there was the competitive part: what is sometimes called 'gamification', where otherwise mundane tasks are given a fun element. It's a bit like walking down the street without treading on the cracks in the pavement, playing 'I Spy' on a long car journey or treating the vacuum cleaner as your Strictly Come Dancing companion.

After a while, the creators of Foursquare changed the service and - as far as I was concerned - knocked some of the enjoyment out of it. Or perhaps I got bored. Either way, I stopped playing that particular game. However, I still keep myself thoroughly entertained. That’s why you’ll occasionally see me accompanying my favourite songs on the car radio by drumming on the steering wheel (obviously only when the vehicle is in a stationary queue of traffic and the handbrake has been applied). You'll find me studying the length of supermarket queues and challenging myself to find the quickest. And you'll hear me correcting the synthesized voice on the bus whenever it pronounces 'Malling' like a non-Lewesian.

As far as I’m concerned, it's important for me to keep having fun. If I stopped, it would be a victory for... hmmm… actually, I'm not entirely sure who my opponent is. But I know I’m beating them.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 113 February 2016

The Philosophical Cat

It was towards the end of November when my wife and I first realised that Rupert the cat wasn't well. Instead of having a bit of food, wandering off and coming back for more, it seemed he'd been forgetting to return. And then he stopped eating altogether. His weight dropped dramatically. Even his purr withered away. Our fifteen-year-old feline friend wasn't just at death's door; he'd pushed open the cat flap in death's door and was preparing to jump through. Whilst his housemate Harry was in fine form - six fully-working mice brought into the house one weekend - dear old Rupert had stopped joining us on the sofa every evening and had started to hide under the hedge. We'd bring him in, he'd take himself back out.

Although Rupert seemed ready to give up on life, Mrs B and I weren't going to let him quit so easily. We tried to tempt him with his favourite foods - sliced ham, tinned sardines, buttery toast crumbs, a little bit of Victoria sponge - but without success. I even stocked the kitchen cupboard with luxury cat food. We took him to the vet, where he was injected with vitamins, steroids and an antibiotic. "He seemed a bit unhappy", the nurse told us when she handed him back. I thought he seemed fairly relaxed. We were the unhappy ones.

Unlike me, Rupert was very good at living 'in the moment'. He didn't care what other people thought about him. He wasn't raging against the unfairness of everything. He wasn't regretting a misspent youth of goldfish-eating and frog-hunting. Despite the apparent passing of his 'best before' date, he was happy with his lot. It felt like I was being given a valuable lesson about stoicism and the philosophy of not worrying about the future.

After the vet trip, we started keeping our increasingly frail cat indoors in case he became too ill to find his way home. The next morning, when I came downstairs, Rupert was lying on his side in the middle of the floor, looking more like a poorly-constructed papier-mache model than a genuine pet. He lifted his head wearily when he heard me. At least there was still hope, I thought. Perhaps he'd like some ham. He turned his head away apologetically. Didn't I understand anything?

I fed Harry, made a cup of tea and went for a shower. When I came downstairs again, Rupert stood and wobbled over to greet me. Was that a miaow? I cracked open the emergency tin of Waitrose 'luxurious and delicate' cat food that I'd bought in case his appetite returned. It had. He cleared the bowl and then looked at me optimistically. In fact, he gave the distinct impression he'd like something similar for breakfast tomorrow. I think it's his way of reminding me he's a cat, not a philosopher.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 112 January 2016