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

Livin’ on a prayer

Occasionally the vicar at my mum's parish church will offer special healing prayers at the end of the regular Sunday service. "I didn't hang around for the extra prayer for health", mum tells me, with more than a hint of triumph in her voice. It conjures up a fascinating image of parishioners sprinting away from the altar rail as though they were caught in a game of spiritual tag. All that's missing is a David Attenborough voiceover, casting the vicar in the role of a predator pouncing on those who can't move quickly enough and are therefore most in need of divine assistance, rather like a medley of the films Cocoon and Logan’s Run.

I'm reminded of a Christian friend who'd pray in tongues if the church's ageing Ford Escort van wouldn't start. She insisted that her light-hearted but sincere praying, which was accompanied by the laying-on of hands, worked every time. Sadly I don’t have any evidence to prove if there really was divine intervention or whether her ritual simply gave the tired engine a little time to warm up. Personally, when it comes to non-functioning vehicles, I’ve tended to place my faith in PlusGas, an aerosol lubricant spray that's very likely to give you a religious experience if you use it in a confined space.

While Lewes is a place of ritual and tradition, we’re a much more practical crowd here in Ringmer. The closest I’ve come to discovering any kind of mysterious ceremonial behaviour was the elderly chap I spotted walking slowly past the shops. I wouldn't have paid him much attention if his talisman hadn't caught my eye. Around his neck on a loose leather cord he was wearing a large silver Aztec pendant inset with ivory. “Maybe he’s brought aspects of an obscure South American religion to the village”, I thought. “He may even be a member of a secret society". As I walked towards him, I realised his shiny pendant was neither Aztec nor ivory. It was a personal alarm button in case he fell over. A symbol of trust, just not the one I'd expected.

But what of my own personal rituals? I reckon I just have two, with everything else more accurately described as ‘odd habits’ or ‘unnecessary attention to detail’. Every morning I put my wedding ring on and then spend the rest of the day worrying that I might lose it, as though it’s a tiny homing beacon for my wife. (I’d strongly recommend matching tattoos for anyone with similar concerns. Worst case, if you divorce you’ll end up looking like a Japanese gangster.) And every night I go to bed hoping that inspiration for my next piece of writing will reveal itself to me as I sleep. Maybe one day it will.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 127 April 2017

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

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

Good news for moths and mothers

One evening in August, I stood outside with my wife and watched the Perseid meteor shower, wishing on a handful of shooting stars before returning indoors to the sofa. Thanks to Ringmer's dark skies, we didn't need to journey beyond the end of our driveway to experience this nocturnal display. You see, we don't have much street lighting around here. There's some on the B2192 to ensure road safety but most of the village is unlit. This has been a local preference for many years; apparently the introduction of street lighting was debated back in 1895 when Ringmer parish council was first formed (chaired by ex-MP William Langham Christie, since you ask). And it isn't just a local quirk: government guidelines say planning decisions "should limit the impact of light pollution from artificial light on local amenity, intrinsically dark landscapes and nature conservation". That's especially pleasing if you're an astronomer or a moth.

A few weeks later I'm visiting mum in West Sussex, sitting at her dining table and talking about home improvements. Suddenly the conversation takes an unexpected turn, reminding me of strange events that only happen under cover of darkness. "Do you have tanks everywhere where you are?", she asks. Perhaps this question wouldn't have seemed so left-field if it had come from a Ukrainian pen-friend, but the context seems completely incongruous. Nope, no military activity whatsoever. We've not had a midnight coup. The county border remains free of razor wire. Maybe I've misheard. "Sorry... what?" I haven't misheard. "Tanks", replies mum. "Do you have tanks where you live?" Oh dear. Perhaps it's time for one of those quick-check medical conversations that involves asking my mother if she knows the date and remembers who the Prime Minister is.

Admittedly, there was a time when armoured vehicles were occasionally seen on the streets near mum's house. They were delivered at night to the local premises of a company called Hunting Hivolt, where high-tech communications equipment would be installed. It was the army equivalent of secretly dropping off your Ford Capri to have a cassette player fitted and a couple of loudspeakers embedded in the parcel shelf. However, the business hasn't been there for years. I rack my brains for an explanation of mum's question. There's an awkward silence. Mum looks exasperated. "Tanks for hot water and cold water. Do you have those in your house?" Phew. Mum's not lost the plot. She's preparing to have a new gas boiler installed; a fairly urgent requirement after the previous one had rusted from the inside out. Installing a new boiler will involve removing her hot water tank, hence the concern. Incidentally, mum had been alerted to the problem by her carbon monoxide detector - "why's this thing keep going off?" - which she'd dealt with by knocking the detector off the wall with a broom handle. A lucky escape, you might say. The scene could have been much darker.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 109 October 2015