Don't look back in manger

I’m dreaming of a traditional Ringmer Christmas. A turkey from butcher Lew Howard, a swift half in the pub after the carol service and a trip to the convenience shop for a pint of milk on 25th December. However, this year there’ll be a few additions. I’m planning to acquire a copy of Pears’ Cyclopaedia, a long-established pre-internet tome that may need to replace our local library if the county council’s proposed closure goes ahead. And there’s a family get-together planned, so our two-year-old grandson will be playing a significant role in the festive celebrations. In fact, there’s a good chance he’ll provide the main entertainment. That’s because every generation of young people learns a useless skill to a high level of expertise. When I was a kid, it started with the yoyo. I’d just about mastered ‘walking the dog’ by the time my contemporaries had moved on to Rubik’s Cube. Next came videogames. I lost interest fairly quickly, mainly because the only game I knew was the monochrome Asteroids machine in the corner of the coffee bar – and that cost 10p a go. Thanks to technology, today’s teens play games that look more like war documentaries, dexterously tapping their fingers to explode three-dimensional Nazi zombies rather than two-dimensional rocks. Our grandson already has his own specialist video-related party piece: he can peel a croissant in 15 seconds without taking his eyes off the latest TV adventures of Peppa Pig. This is a trick I might try to refine for long car journeys.

As well as practising pastry exfoliation, I probably ought to adopt a few more of the latest seasonal trends. According to The Sun, ‘extreme cleavage’ is one of the biggest fashion trends for Christmas 2017. This statement is illustrated with a photo of Amanda Holden’s chest and a reminder of her age, as though the ability to use double-sided tape is somehow remarkable for a 46-year-old. I’m already expecting some extreme cleavage at the dinner table, although ours is going to involve the turkey. Also predicted by style gurus is the return of tinsel. That’s no surprise to me: ours has been returning annually from a black bin bag in the loft since it was bought in Woolworths. In addition, financial experts have been cautioning against over-enthusiastic spending. Good news for all my friends, as it gives me an excuse to return to my childhood recipe for home-made peppermint creams, neatly presented in vol-au-vent cases and tasting more like toothpaste than confectionery.

Most importantly, this kind of back-to-basics Christmas means I have the perfect opportunity to teach my grandson some of the festive songs that meant so much to me as a schoolboy. All together now: "While shepherds washed their socks by night..."

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 135 December 2017

A snail's space

I’m tiptoeing across our patio in the dark. Silhouetted in the moonlight, I cast a sinister shadow rather like a Scooby-Doo villain. An ominous rumble accompanies every step I take. It’s Sunday night and I’m moving our wheeled bin onto the driveway, ready for it to be emptied in the morning. However, my caution isn’t an attempt to keep quiet. It’s prompted by the large number of snails that inhabit our garden. You see, I have a particular fondness for snails, although I’m not quite sure why. Perhaps it’s the childhood trauma of having stood on one. Perhaps it’s the graphic description of snail farming that our French teacher gave us at secondary school. Either way, I don my outdoor slippers and tread very carefully whenever I’m in the garden at night. If I didn’t, there’d be a lot of crunching.

Actually, I’m not sure if tiptoeing is a smart move. Although it reduces the size of my footprint, it increases the pressure if there is any unfortunate snail-related incident. Maybe I ought to wear bigger shoes to disperse the impact. I wonder what size of shoe I’d need to ensure the safety of the average snail? A quick internet search reveals that dancing en pointe in ballet shoes can double the pressures acting on a foot. Therefore, strapping a pillow to each foot might be enough – but my A-level physics fails me at this stage. I’m tired and it’s time for bed.

Just a few minutes after my head hits the pillow I’m drifting off into a world where snails are telepathic. They’re trying to teach me something about Newton’s Second Law of Motion. Julia Bradbury is there, too. Perhaps she’s making a TV show about my pillow-shoe invention. She smiles at me and… hang on, Julia, I’m a married man. My wife…

My wife’s phone wakes me with a beep. She picks it up from the dressing table to see who’s sent her a message. “Sorry”, she whispers. I’m relieved it’s only the dream snails that are telepathic. The message is a casual inquiry from her daughter, whose five-month-old son is yet to adopt conventional sleeping. Anything that involves our nocturnal grandson is forgiven, of course. He’s a delightful chap to whom I’ve already promised an action-packed trip to the zoo when he’s a little older. After all, if a grandparent's role is to indulge their children's children, then a step-grandparent's role is surely even more anarchic. I’ll need to behave like some kind of louche character that might be portrayed on film by Hugh Grant or Bill Nighy, arriving at every birthday party on a Harley Davidson and wearing a smoking jacket. But there's one thing I haven't decided yet. Should I accessorise with pointy-toed slippers or extra-wide soft-soled shoes?

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 110 November 2015

Existential angst and egg sandwiches

It's not often that we have a family get-together. I visit mum most weeks, despite her apparent conviction that my journey from East Sussex to West Sussex is rather like crossing Berlin in the 1960s. She sees my brother more frequently, mainly because he doesn't live on the wrong side of Checkpoint Charlie. I sometimes feel under enormous pressure to defect to the West... but I also feel sure we're equally loved.

Little brother - for I'm two years ahead of him - has a whirlwind lifestyle that leaves me out of breath. Working long hours during the week, worthy deeds most evenings, golf at the weekend. Either that or he's very good at avoiding me. This week we managed to catch up, putting the world to rights by debating mobile phone technology, science fiction films and parking charges. The important stuff.

Sadly this family reunion wasn't a happy occasion. We were getting together for the funeral of a friend.

Now, I'm no fan of funerals. Unlike many of my mother's mates, I don't have a special funeral coat. I haven't turned funeral attendance into a hobby. I can even manage without the egg sandwich and cup of tea afterwards. You might think this sounds like fear and denial. Let's just say I'm more than a little disappointed that immortality isn't available on the NHS yet. At the very least, I reckon it should be possible to fit me with an atomic-powered mechanical exoskeleton by now. You know, rather like Robert Downey Jr in Iron Man. Not that I need it at the moment, although it would come in handy when running for the bus.

Anyway, my brother and I were chatting after the funeral and arrived slightly late at the wake, which meant most of the egg sandwiches had gone. As we're piling our tiny plates with spring rolls and cold pepperoni pizza, mum asks if one of us can refill her tea cup. Little brother obliges and I hear mum saying "my son is pouring me another cup". Not 'my younger son'. Not 'one of my sons'. I raise my eyebrows and turn to my brother, who looks apologetic. I'm not surprised. He's probably getting a mechanical exoskeleton for Christmas.

First published on vivalewes.com 15th November 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

When age goes out the window

"Age is just a number". That's a phrase much used by my mother, particularly when deflecting unwanted questions about her birthday. Mind you, I think I've picked up some of the attitude. I'm certainly not happy about getting older. This dissatisfaction isn't usually obvious until I'm involved in some kind of activity that requires me to be categorised. Surveys (between 18 and 65, since you ask), holidays (not eligible for Saga discounts yet), pubs (go on, ask me if I’ve got any I.D.), car insurance (too old to be a boy racer) and so on. This week I've added parenthood to my list of annoying age-related assumptions... but first I'd like to clarify something. I'm not a parent. My lovely wife was already equipped with children and cats when we met, which has excused me from all manner of toilet training. It has, however, resulted in me becoming a step-father.

And there I go. I've been placed in an age bracket. People are picturing me walking through Lewes with one of those three-wheeled buggies and a cat on my shoulder. Nope, that's not me. Besides, the story I want to tell involves a step-daughter locking herself out of her home. That puts me in a different demographic, doesn't it?

Anyway, the event was the highlight of my week, so I shall tell my tale whilst attempting to maintain an illusion of agelessness.

A few days ago the phone rang at home. I didn't rush to answer it because I don't own any children or cats, not because I wasn't feeling especially spritely. It was the aforementioned step-youngster, somewhat concerned because she was locked out and her dinner was locked in. There was a little window open at the side of the house but neither she nor her boyfriend could reach in to open a larger window. Under other circumstances they'd have been pleased with the level of security. Not that night. We assembled a crack team of housebreakers - me, wife, resident teenager - and set off down the road with the tools of our newly-adopted trade. I had a small hammer and two screwdrivers, mainly because I'd once seen someone steal a car on The Bill with similar equipment. My wife had a wire coat hanger. Her son was in charge of the ladder.

On arrival my wife dismantled the coat hanger and started fishing through the letter box. The teenager held his ladder as nonchalantly as possible.

I climbed the ladder, reached in, unlocked the large window, realised I couldn't get back out without displacing my sternum on the latch, wriggled in through the little window and exited via the front door whilst avoiding the coat hanger. Cue applause.

I’m told this is the sort of thing that parents are expected to do. But an old chap couldn't have done that, could he?

First published on vivalewes.com 1st November 2012: http://vivalewes.com/