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

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.