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

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