Turf Wars: living next door to malice

Our home is at the centre of a discomfiting territorial dispute. It started when we moved house last summer and - despite our best efforts - hasn't gone away. Harry the cat has, understandably, claimed our garden as his own. The cats that live next door see it as more of a community asset, particularly as there’s a conveniently cat-sized hole in the fence. Despite Harry’s insistence that the hole was only intended for hedgehogs, his fellow felines still pop round for the occasional chat. All we can do is shake our heads and shrug our shoulders in sympathy whenever Harry looks to us for support.

That’s pretty much the only disharmony in our street: intermittent tail twitching and a muttered miaow. Fortunately there's no personal disagreement whatsoever. Loving our human neighbours is remarkably easy. On a broader scale, Ringmer’s neighbours are equally likeable. Obviously I can’t say a bad thing about Lewes. (That’s due to contractual obligation rather than any personal preference.) Occasionally we hear a little noise when you throw a party – there’s some kind of thing you do every November, isn’t there? – but we’ve got used to it now. Barcombe Mills: it’s a delight to have you alongside us, although a bit of a shame about your lack of mills. Firle brings joy every time someone from the village says your multi-syllabled name. Obviously Isfield is notable for having the only working railway line within a significant radius. And talking of machinery, I really ought to mention Bentley Wildfowl and Motor Museum, which is surely the only place in the country that successfully combines ducks and racing cars without any harm to eider.

But all this is missing the biblical point of ‘love thy neighbour’. Jesus told the story of a man walking from Jerusalem to Jericho, which is rather like walking from the spiritual beacon of Ringmer to the far side of Hove, except that the road was considerably more dangerous. Not only was there no separate cycle path, there were also gangs of bandits roaming the countryside. In the bible story, the traveller has his life saved by someone who – in other circumstances – would have been seen as an enemy. Totes awk, as the Samaritan might have said when he texted his mates afterwards.

So, as well as loving my neighbour's cats and all the friendly people in our road who popped a Christmas card through the letterbox last year, it seems I have a biblical mandate to love people who live further away. Not just those in surrounding villages or even born-and-bred Brightonians. No, if I’ve understood the parable correctly, it seems I am being called to love those from far-away lands with lifestyles I don’t understand. Despite their strange customs and unfamiliar accents, the people of West Sussex are also my neighbours.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 137 February 2018.

Read-only memory

My wife's flicking through photos of Rupert the cat on her phone. One shows him almost seventeen years ago, a tiny saucer-eyed creature with exactly the same symmetrical black-and-white markings as the adult cat I came to know. "I miss my little kitten", she says. I miss him too, although he was never my little kitten. Instead, he chose to adopt me in middle age. (His, obviously. I'm still in denial about mine.) Sadly, Rupert's not been himself for several weeks, which is why we're consoling ourselves by looking through old photos. At the moment he's sitting on the bedroom windowsill, although we only know it's him because his name's written on the label attached to a little wicker wallet. The preceding words on the label are 'In Loving Memory Of'.

Rupert had been forgetting things for a few months. He'd forgotten where his outdoor toilet was. Then he forgot to eat. Eventually he forgot to keep breathing, too. One Friday morning, we woke up but he didn't. We found him lying in his bed with his offside front leg stretched forwards, looking about as relaxed as he ever did. Frozen in the perfect taxidermy of death.

We couldn't bury him under his favourite tree because we were moving house and didn't want to leave him behind. So we had him cremated at Raystede's Peaceways crematorium, where we bid a sad farewell to him in his feline form and retrieved him a few days later in a disconcertingly gritty pocket-sized packet. And we wept, not just for the cat we'd lost but also for the love we weren't able to give him any more, for the extra love he'd never know.

Of course, he's haunting our new home. Bad ghosts haunt with a malevolent presence. They put white sheets over their heads and say "woo". A cat poltergeist might yowl mysteriously from the wardrobe at midnight or nibble their initials into an unwary mouse. Rupert haunts us with his absence. We know the shadow by the window isn't his. There's a cat-sized gap on the sofa between me and Mrs B. The buttery crumpet crumbs remain on our breakfast plates.

We'd expected to lose something when we moved. A picture frame was dropped. A self-assembly cupboard started disassembling itself. We spent a week with only a single cereal bowl between us before the rest of the mismatched set emerged. But we'd not expected to leave some of our happy memories behind.

Fortunately, plenty remain. We have hundreds of Rupert photos, all copied to secure online storage in some Californian bunker. Most importantly, we still have Harry, the backup cat. He's very fond of his new home... and of sitting in the extra space that's now available on the sofa. It almost looks like he's posing for a portrait.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 132 September 2017

Life is en suite

"Oooh", says our grandson. At two years old, he's not a man of many words. Fortunately, he imbues his vocabulary with an amount of exaggerated enthusiasm that would make even Kenneth Williams blush. As a result, my wife and I know exactly what he's talking about. All three of us have heard an unexpected release of pressurised water. "Is that the washing machine, grandpa?" asks my wife. A quick investigation reveals the hissing to be of animal rather than mechanical origin. Rupert the cat has emptied his bladder onto a plastic bag in the corner of the room. Don't tell me cats have no sense of humour. I can think of no possible reason he would’ve chosen a plastic bag except for the comedic sound effect.

Young boy and old cat have become unlikely companions in the past year. Not best friends - the disparity in energy levels is too wide - but definitely something warmer than tolerance. "Miaow" is one of the more-used words in our grandson's lexicon, usually accompanied by the presentation of a cat biscuit. Yet the last few months have shown this may not be a long-term relationship. These days the cat often takes several seconds to stand up, before walking like a badly-operated remote-controlled toy. Veterinary visits include talk of 'management' rather than cure. And now it appears as though Rupert's walnut-sized brain is also suffering the effects of age-related problems. It seems likely that he's forgotten his cat latrine under the hedge and wants an indoor alternative. This could be the beginning of a sad decline. My mother's told me that I should hit her over the head with a rolling pin if she loses her mental faculties. (I probably ought to start wearing a rolling pin holster whenever I visit, just in case she's ever confused about whom the prime minister is.) However, that sort of treatment seems a bit harsh for dear little Rupert.

So, with the cat not going out, it's time for us to make the effort. A trip to Ringmer's pet shop yields a couple of low-tech plastic trays and a sack of high-tech German cat litter. Apparently it's eco-friendly and flushable, although Rupert won't be doing the flushing himself.

That evening, my wife and I are sitting with Rupert on the sofa. He's wedged himself between us; a blatantly divisive act that would call for the intervention of a cat psychologist in other circumstances. After a while he tries to stand, but without success. His eyes widen with distress. My wife and I turn to look at each other. In her face I see a mixture of emotions: love, sadness... and an expression that looks more like frustration than anything else. Eventually she speaks, not to the cat but to me. "You're sitting on his tail."

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 130 July 2017

The Write Stuff

The fax machine buzzes in the corner of my office, producing a curled sheet of warm paper. I tear the page off but it rips unevenly, inadvertently leaving a tiny triangle of paper on the serrated edge. This happens every time, no matter how hard I try. "Print isn't dead", the message reads. "That's the theme for June." It's a compelling picture – assuming you were paying attention at school when your teacher told you what a fax machine was, probably in the same history lesson that included the trebuchet and the sackbut – but sadly it's not true. This is fake news. My editor's message actually arrived as an email on my mobile phone.

Here’s where I make another confession. I like using technology, often to the detriment of paper-based communications. I’m more likely to email a photo than a write a postcard. I’m more likely to look at the BBC website than buy a newspaper. And I’m more likely to send a text message than tuck a little note into a carrier pigeon’s sock. Sure, technology itself can be transient – in the 1970s a landline phone was the height of sophistication; these days the only call I’m likely to receive on one is either from a hostage negotiator or my mother – but it’s not done the printed word many favours.

And I have to admit that the phrase “print isn’t dead” is uncomfortable for me in another way. In my mind, mortality is very much implied. Print’s not dead. I’m not dead. And yet… if we wait long enough, eh? Mind you, if we're talking about the relative longevity of things, I reckon both print and myself are a long way behind Rupert the cat. A few weeks ago he was seen by a vet whose Australian accent had an appropriately matter-of-fact quality for delivering unwelcome news without drama. "His heart sounds dreadful." It reduced the emotional content of the diagnosis to the level of a conversation about car servicing. Rupert was unconcerned, either because the vet had offered him a chicken-flavoured biscuit or because he only understood 'miaow'. Still, all the other parts of Rupert are in reasonably good shape, so we’ve not cancelled this month’s seventeenth birthday party.

And if worrying about cats wasn’t enough, we’re due to be moving house by the end of June. We’re staying in Ringmer, of course, due to the contractual obligations imposed by writing this column. It’s a little like the prison in classic Schwarzenegger sci-fi movie The Running Man, although I’m reasonably confident that my head won’t explode if I leave. In fact, my biggest worry is getting the post redirected. I wouldn’t want to miss any of my magazine subscriptions. Or my fan mail, obviously. Yes, fake news again.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 129 June 2017

In a flap

I’m not a natural DIYer. I’ve learned that having the right tools is no substitute for having the right skills. In my last home, I used Blu-tack to hold down the wallpaper in the lounge and ultra-white toothpaste to fill the drawing pin holes in the ceiling.

But I’m happy to undertake essential maintenance and minor upgrades, especially when they improve the quality of life. So, when my wife presented me with a state-of-the-art cat flap last month, I quickly leapt into action. A neighbour’s cat had been popping round for extra breakfast, causing a fair amount of distress to our two feline residents. Elderly Rupert became too scared to go outside. This had unpleasant consequences. Even on a good day he’s responsible for noxious emissions that would shame a misfiring Volkswagen.

Off came the old cat flap. I enlarged the hole and fitted the new high-tech flap, which reads the microchip that each cat has under the skin at the back of his neck. A few seconds of programming means no-one else can enter. After a few days spent explaining this to the cats – they needed to adjust their entry technique to nose-first rather than leading with a foot – they’d mastered it. By the end of the week, the hacksaw injury to my fingernail had started to heal. Air pollution had returned to a safe level. All was well. My maintenance had, once again, helped keep us happy and content.

Or so I thought. Saturday morning arrives. “I’m meeting the estate agent at that house I mentioned”, my wife tells me. “Would you like to come?” To be honest, I’d assumed her house-hunting was little more than casual window-shopping, not unlike the six-wheeled fire tender I’m watching on eBay. Besides, the house she’d shown me looked a bit weird on the estate agent’s plans, with a long extension that gave the impression it had been modelled after a low-budget 1980s space station. I feared it might require quite a bit of work before we’d be happy there. At least it’s still in Ringmer... and at least it would mean I didn’t have to do much more to our present home.

Unexpectedly, the house turns out to be more attractive in real life than on the printed page. My wife seems to agree. In fact, she’s already making plans. “We wouldn’t need to keep this floral wallpaper”, she points out. I rub my fractured fingernail before replying “I quite like it”. When we head into the kitchen, the estate agent hints that it’s a little dated. “I think it suits the place”, I suggest. “By the way, I don’t suppose there’s an electronic cat flap in the back door, is there?”

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 126 March 2017

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

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

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

Walking the clean streets of Ringmer

I look around the house for inspiration, ideally in the form of chocolate. There’s none to be found, just an enormous ball of purple tinfoil and an Easter egg-shaped piece of extruded plastic. Perhaps I should get out for a while. I’m motivated by last month's Viva Lewes interview with walk-inspired writer Iain Sinclair. He calls it psychogeography. Go for a walk, say what you see. Channelling a combination of Diogenes and Roy Walker – cultural references for everyone – I tie my bootlaces and stride onto the streets of Ringmer.

The topic for this month's magazine is on my mind. 'Keeping it clean'. I spot one of those red bins for dog waste. Have I ever seen anyone emptying one of them? I don’t think so. Can’t imagine that’s anyone’s dream job. Also keeping the village clean are Ringmer’s litter-picking volunteers. I’ve never seen them, either. When I was younger, comic books showed park-keepers using a spike on a stick to stab errant pieces of paper, usually with an amusing aside that involved puncturing bicycle tyres and footballs. Ah, the good old days, when chasing children with a spiky stick was perfectly acceptable.

Further down the road sits a row of recycling bins in the car park; the newspaper container is taped off like a crime zone. Aylesford Newsprint went into administration in February. Is it my fault for not recycling enough? Should I have claimed more free newspapers from Waitrose? A quick internet search on my phone tells me the company’s local MP blamed cheap Russian imports. I imagine old copies of Pravda being smuggled across the Kent coast.

Past the shops, where a plaque for ‘best kept village in all Sussex 1985’ is fixed to the wall. Thirty years on and we’re still looking pretty good, I think. Over the road and past the church. Cleanliness is next to godliness, so John Wesley preached. He had a very short dictionary. I keep walking onto a quiet country road, speckled with litter on the verge. An empty cigarette packet. A crisp packet. A flattened drink can. A broken car wheel trim. A half-deflated party balloon in the hedge, perhaps escaped from a car window. Curiously, all vaguely silver. Maybe I should bring a bin bag for my next walk? I already carry a reusable supermarket bag. Who recycles the bags, anyway?

There’s a hint of manure in the air as I turn to head home. Farmyard recycling, I imagine. A better solution than having a big red bin in the corner of your field. Past the water treatment works and more unsavoury recycling before I arrive home.

Harry the cat is asleep in the back yard, next to a recently-deceased rat. A clean kill. I go indoors, put my hand in an old carrier bag to pick up the rat, then drop it in the dustbin. It’s dirty work but someone’s got to do it.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 104 May 2015.

Looking for love at breakfast time

It’s Saturday morning and my wife is smiling at me in a way that melts my heart. I am indeed a lucky man. On other occasions she has a different look that’s capable of melting someone’s face, leaving her victim looking like the Gestapo agent in Raiders of the Lost Ark. That’s not happened to me. Not yet, anyway.

This is one of those special moments I’d like to remember, although I don’t know how best to do it. Some people write diary entries, take photos or drink champagne when there’s something to celebrate. Others may carve their initials in a tree, get a tattoo or buy another charm for their bracelet. I’m looking for something that’s more personal. Something unique.

February is already a special month for me and Mrs B. We first met on February 16th, two days after St Valentine's Day. To be honest, I was rather pleased with myself. Not only did I have a guaranteed reminder every year, I could also buy a romantic anniversary gift at a dramatically discounted price. We’d feast on cut-price chocolates. If only we’d thought to get married on the same day.

This morning I’ve just presented Mrs B with a plate of toasted crumpets and a jar of Marmite. That, I’m sure, has helped prompt the smile. We’re sitting at the kitchen table, having breakfast. As I lean forward to put butter on my toast, Rupert the cat jumps into the space behind me. He's not allowed on my lap when we're eating but has decided that becoming a bony cushion is an acceptable compromise. When I sit down again, I perch carefully on the edge of my chair. Rupert starts purring loudly, although anyone hearing the noise without seeing the creature would imagine I was incubating a gargling pigeon. Is this affection? Is this happiness? I turn to address the cat. "What do you know about love, Rupert?" He looks at me curiously, as though I'm the one making a strange sound. My wife answers. "He doesn't think about love any more. Not after the operation." She then mimes scissors in a way I find slightly disconcerting.

I flinch, an unconscious response to Rupert’s emasculation. Mrs B leans across the table to give me a reassuring kiss. I flinch again, this time because she's forgotten the plate of crumpets in front of her. Afterwards, I notice that her dressing gown is now marked with a Marmite outline of her right breast, like a savoury Turin Shroud. I know it’s not permanent but maybe it’ll last until our wedding anniversary.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 101 February 2015.

Shopping for the purr-fect present in Ringmer

“Mip” says Rupert the cat. “Mip, mip.” He’s speaking in Morse code, as usual. Harry, his companion and occasional sparring partner, joins in. “Marup, merup, morup.” I’ve no idea what Harry’s saying. Either Latin or Martian, I’d guess. He nibbles my ankle to encourage my translation efforts. Ah, yes. Time for cat dinner.

In recent years, the two cats that share our Ringmer home have increasingly been happy for me to prepare their food. Harry still occasionally makes a menu suggestion by carefully placing a fully-functioning mouse under the kitchen table, but he’s generally satisfied with a sachet of whatever’s on special offer. Their current food supply claims to be “independently taste tested by experts”, according to the box. I’ve had some bad jobs in my time but that really would top the list. Equally disturbingly, their biscuits are branded as “food cats would naturally choose”. Would my feline guests pop them in the shopping trolley if they had a chance – or would they rather be baking their own? Either way, I’m not convinced.

The ankle-biting is also a timely reminder that the boys will expect a Christmas present. Or, at least, will need a little distraction when the turkey’s being cooked. Local butcher Lew Howard has an ever-growing list of orders at this time of year but I’m not placing an extra one to please our cats. No, it’s off to The Pet Store, a.k.a. Creature Comforts.

That’s one of the great things about living in a village. Although you may not be able to get everything you need, there’s a pretty good chance you’ll have at least one specialist shop that puts many big-city rivals to shame. We have a wealth of such professionals in Ringmer, from home-based businesses to a warehouse or two. And right in the heart of the village, a pet shop with a dog grooming salon. Not merely a retailer but an entertainer. Watching an afghan hound being dried is more fun than most reality TV shows.

When I call in and ask about Christmas gifts, I’m told it’s dogs rather than cats that tend to receive most presents. Apparently this is because dog owners tend to indulge their pets more. I have my own theory. I reckon it’s about the animal’s sense of humour. Dogs like slapstick comedy, while cats prefer irony. You see, there are plenty of amusing dog gifts – clip-on antlers, knitted jumpers, chewy boxes, tinned Christmas dinner – but not so much for cats. I even wonder about buying them an automatic cat feeder before I realise I’d be rendering myself useless.

And then I spot an advent calendar with a catnip treat hidden behind each door. Next to it, a treat-filled fishnet stocking for December 25th. I buy both. Traditional and ironic. Let’s hope the joke is appreciated.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 99 December 2014.

Keeping it real in Ringmer

It's important not to lose touch with reality. At least, that's what Rupert the cat told me last week. We were chatting on our way back from the vet, where he’d been treated for fight-related injuries. Mind you, I understand that some people may not define 'important' and 'reality' in the same way as I do. Back when I worked for a big telecommunications company, I was convinced that any presentation I produced could be given a title from a country music song. When I needed an off-beat starting point, I'd look to Nashville for inspiration. "Flushed from the bathroom of your heart" was a particular triumph. Shortly after I implemented this major lyrical innovation, my job disappeared. I reckon someone stole my idea and then covered up the evidence. Crazy? That's exactly what Patsy Cline said.

Anyway, these days I'm keeping both feet firmly on the ground... and living in Ringmer is one of the ways I do this. It's certainly a dramatic contrast from my previous home. Before I moved here I lived in a West Sussex town with many tourists and almost enough gift shops to house them all on a rainy Saturday. A little like Lewes, some might say. I couldn't possibly comment.

We even had a 'lifestyle' shop that sold an impractical and unlikely combination of kitchen equipment, cosmetics, stationery, imported photo frames and expensive toys. Plus, of course, coffee and scented candles. Secretly I loved it.

In fact, I could have enjoyed afternoon tea in a different place every day for a month without having the same type of cake twice. That's how many coffee bars and tea shops there were. Budgetary constraints kept my blood-sugar levels stable, although I was tempted on several occasions.

Fortunately, the reality of Ringmer has saved me from myself... and from any similar temptation. There's only one bakery. You see, no-one would raise an eyebrow if I walked into a pub and the barman said "your usual, Mark?" before pouring a pint of Harveys. It's much less socially acceptable to be presented with a Belgian bun in a paper bag whenever you meet a baker. The embarrassment of being recognised as a frequent customer keeps my patisserie habit under control. You need to know when to walk away. Well, that's what Rupert says anyway. Or was it Kenny Rogers?

First published on Viva Lewes 3rd July 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com

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/

Feline groovy

"Good morning, fatboy" says the teenager as he wanders downstairs for his breakfast. I'm tempted to reply with "It's not fat, it's loose skin" but instead I shrug and adopt an expression that suggests I don't understand. Well, I've been up half the night partying and would rather get back to my dream about goldfish. Oh, how I love goldfish. A bit like sushi, except livelier. Sorry, I'm being rude. I haven't introduced myself yet. Mark's busy this week so I thought I'd step in and lend a hand. A paw, really. I'm Rupert the cat.

I know what you're thinking. (No, honestly, I do. We cats are all telepathic). What's a cat going to write about? Much the same as your regular columnist, I'd say. Admittedly I don't see as much of Ringmer as he does - these days I've put away my cat-nav and limit my territory to the end of the street - but I still stay in touch via social media. Oh, how I love twittering. It's like hearing a dinner bell.

Anyway, as I was saying, Mark's tied up with other work. Not that I usually call him by his chosen name. To me he is The One With The Food. This grand title means he is accorded worship on the sofa most evenings. Humans will suggest it indicates affection. We cats know better.

So with my waiter and your writer distracted, I'm able to offer a few opinions about the local area. It's certainly a popular destination for single cats and mismatched cat couples. Not many feline families. I blame the folk down the road at Raystede for that. Yours truly popped in to visit their animal sanctuary when I was a kitten and left a few days later with the distinct sensation a couple of important components were missing. (Every so often I have a look underneath to see if it'll jog my memory. It doesn't.)

When it comes to retailing, we felines are well catered for in Ringmer. Cat-ered?  Pah, never mind. You'll find a cat convenience store (known by humans as the 'pet shop') and a cat healthcare centre ('v-e-t'). Various shops for people, too.

I can also confirm there's no rat problem in Ringmer. There's no mouse problem, either. There's not even a crunchy vole problem. All are found in adequate supply if you know where to look. (If you don't know where to look, try lurking by next-door's decking half-an-hour before sunrise).

Still, I've got to dash now. The old chap's returning to his computer. That means I need to stop dictating and must just sit on the keyboard nonchalantly. Yes, dictating. It has speech-recognition software. Well, how else did you think I could write all this?   Me. Ow.

First published on vivalewes.com 22nd August 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/feline-groovy/

Accept your fête

The very first episode of Channel 4 television series 'Father Ted' contains one of the sitcom's most memorable scenes. Father Dougal insists on visiting 'Funland' on Craggy Island, where the world's least exciting funfair is taking place. One of the stalls is simply a cat rotating on the turntable of a record player. To avoid any doubt, a hand-painted sign says 'Spinning cat'.

That mechanised moggie is an image I often think of whenever village entertainment is mentioned – but local events shouldn’t all be written off as uninteresting. Our neighbouring village of Glynde recently hosted a couple of festivals that saw world-renowned musicians performing. There's the Ringmer Steam & Country Show in a few weeks and coming up even sooner is the Ringmer Shopkeepers' Fun Day.

This appears to have two straightforward aims. One is to raise funds for charity. The other is to encourage local people to visit the shopping precinct. Now, there's no denying our precinct is suffering from an economic downturn at the moment. I counted four empty shops this week, which is a sizeable percentage of the total. No trendy ‘pop up’ art galleries or discount luggage retailers have arrived to temporarily fill the spaces. Yet those remaining shops have managed to arrange live music, dancing, a dog agility display, a dog show, the attendance of East Sussex Fire & Rescue, special offers and free food. Pretty impressive, given the circumstances. Most intriguingly, there'll be free dog portraits as well.

For four hours on Saturday 13th July, we're promised fun for the entire family. It's easy to mock. It's easy to ask when the 'duck startling' begins and where the terrifying 'tunnel of goats' is. (Both are on fictional Craggy Island, since you ask). But I think there'll be charm and a real sense of community. You could almost say the Ringmer fun day will be more honest than larger events.

In fact, I'm already planning my visit. First, I need to disguise the cat by giving him a bone and walking him up to the precinct on a lead. Well, there’s a free portrait on offer. Unless… hmmm… I wonder if he’d sit on our old record player?

First published on vivalewes.com 11th July 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/accept-your-fete/

When the cat’s away…

My mother's been counting birds, she tells me. There was an RSPB survey the other week that involved her tallying the number of visitors seen in an hour. Rather like Neighbourhood Watch but without hiding behind a curtain. Perhaps that’s why some people call it ‘twitching’. Anyway, she ended up monitoring the garden for two hours and then struggled to decide which hour to submit. One had more variety - woodpecker, blackcap, assorted finches - but the other was a larger total. Eventually it was quantity that won, disproving the idea that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

I mention this because until recently I'd not seen many birds in our Ringmer garden. Sure, we have jackdaws on our chimney pot and seagulls circling overhead. I've even spotted a heron on the village pond. But feathery visitors have been few and far between, mainly because of our two cats.

When I say "our" I don't mean mine. I have no cats. In fact, I've heard suggestions that no-one really owns cats; it's cats that own people. Semantics aside, the cats were already living with my wife when we first met, so they're definitely not mine. (Except when they need feeding or a trip to the vet, of course). Anyway, I reckon they’re slowing down. It's the weather, I'm sure. Outside is cold, indoors is warm... and because I spend much of my time working from home, the cats now spend much of their time in the lounge. The sofa is rarely cat-free except when I plug the sofa-cleaning attachment into the vacuum cleaner. But there is an upside. These days I'm noticing more bird life in our garden. Whilst our neighbours have spent many years encouraging feathered friends onto a gazebo that's guarded by a small terrier, we've been more worried than joyful whenever a robin lands.

However, in the last week or so there’s been considerably less cat activity in the garden and more cat inactivity indoors. I’ve even taken to regularly gazing out of the window to watch an occasional blackbird hop across the lawn. Such joy.

At least, there was joy until an unfortunate incident the other day. A thrush landed on the garden path. I looked around; both cats asleep. Lovely. All’s well with the world. The thrush hops down the path, showing off its speckled waistcoat without a care. And then it spots a slug. It stabs the poor slug with its beak and pounds it against the ground again and again. I can’t bear this. Surely it’s time to send the cats out.

First published on vivalewes.com 8th February 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

The CSI Effect

"Funny people live in Ringmer", opines my mother from the safety of West Sussex. She seems to have forgotten I've chosen to make my home here. I shrug, a gesture that's completely lost down the telephone line.

Mum isn't simply spraying slander but is commenting on the errant local teacher who's recently been making headlines. During the search for this man and his teenage charge, a criminologist was interviewed about the possible techniques being used by the police.

Although detectives could try to locate fugitives through mobile phones and credit card usage, he said most people were aware of this due to the 'CSI Effect' - and therefore anyone looking to avoid discovery would try not to use either. What he didn't mention was that the CSI Effect is rooted in fantasy.

CSI, an abbreviation for Crime Scene Investigation, is one of my guilty pleasures. It's an American TV drama that focuses on the high-tech processes used to solve crimes; I like to think of it as Quincy for the 21st century. All that's missing is Jack Klugman and his hearse. However, CSI is as much science fiction as it is science fact. Real forensic science isn't as slick as those technicians on television might suggest. But we're all falling for it.

I'm reminded of Dallas, the 1980s TV series that's recently returned to our screens. When I watched the original episodes in the innocence of my youth, I really thought adults behaved like those caricatures. Greed, lying, affairs... that was normal, right? Wrong, of course. Dallas is no more a realistic portrayal of the oil and cattle ranching businesses than CSI echoes Saturday night at Lewes police station. You’ll also notice there's no Dallas Effect, with home-owners keeping a couple of Friesians in the garden and drilling an exploratory bore-hole by the shed. No-one ever went into medicine because they thought it would be like The Singing Detective. Six Feet Under was never seen as an exposé of the funeral trade. Yet we have a CSI Effect, where everyone's an expert in fictional criminology.

Mind you, if those transgressing the law believe in the CSI Effect, there's nothing to worry about. Criminals who fear being tracked will leave their mobile phones at home, never to receive the warning text message that says "COPS R ON UR TAIL". They'll run out of money as they flee justice. And they'll sell their guard dogs for fear of being identified via canine DNA.

Anyway, since Dallas I'm no longer taken in by television dramas. In fact, work and domestic chores leave little time for TV watching these days.

Talking of which, our resident teenager has just attracted my attention. One of our cats has left a dead mouse on the doorstep. I carefully draw a chalk outline round its tiny corpse and reach for my chemistry set.

First published on vivalewes.com 4th October 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

A science-fiction double-feature

In the past week there have been two significant events in my life. I have lost my kitchen and discovered the new 'Total Recall' film. Curiously, both are connected.

Total Recall, as you may know, began life in 1966 as a short story by Philip K Dick. The original story tailed off into complete fantasy, probably influenced by the author’s preferred medication. A couple of decades ago it became an action-packed science fiction adventure starring Arnold Schwarzenegger - and now it's been remade with Colin Farrell acting out a different plot. Arnie's movie asked whether our hero was confused by an 'artificial memory' he'd chosen as an alternative to a proper holiday. And Colin Farrell's story has many a nod to the earlier film while following a number of new secret-agent story elements. (Yes, chaps, there really is a woman with three chests in the new film - and not in the same sense as Portia in 'The Merchant of Venice').

I rather enjoyed the film once I'd realised it was neither a remake nor a brand new concept. You could say it was 'inspired by' the original version, not unlike the new VW Beetle, a mock-Tudor executive home or a microwave lasagne.

Anyway, one of the reasons we had a family night out at the pictures in Uckfield on Saturday was because our lounge is currently stuffed with the former contents of our old kitchen. We're mid-way through having a new kitchen fitted.

The previous kitchen had seen better days... and many of them, too. It had been given a facelift in the 1990s, which helped to explain the odd combination of brushed chrome and flaky varnish. Fortunately, we're blessed with a decent kitchen designer and supplier in Ringmer.

First, of course, the old kitchen needs to be removed. That's why we have breakfast cereal balanced on the TV in the lounge. That's also why there's a pile of old kitchen units in the back garden, guarded by a couple of puzzled cats who haven't quite worked out where their food has moved to. For several days the kitchen area looked distressingly empty and tatty. Previously-inaccessible cobwebs were revealed. The fitter's pencil marks on the wall gave the impression of a graffiti lesson for infants.

Stage two is now underway as the new kitchen units arrive. But d’you know what? It all seems rather familiar. Yes, it's clean and shiny and 21st-century but... well... you can't help wondering whether you should have just left it alone. Whether a quick wipe round with a damp cloth would have saved all that work. Let's face it, the important stuff is still roughly in the same place.

All of which has me speculating whether Colin Farrell thinks the same about his film.

More importantly, I'm also wondering if that embedded technology from the film will ever make it into real life. Mr Farrell's character had a mobile phone implanted under the skin of his hand. Right now, I'd be very happy with a hotplate.

First published on vivalewes.com 13th September 2012: http://vivalewes.com/