Smells like nicotine spirit

In 1751, William Hogarth created an etching entitled Gin Lane, depicting the negative effects of what’s now known as the ‘gin craze’. I like to think he’d choose electronic cigarettes for his satire if he were around today. Whilst walking into a secondhand vapour cloud that smells of fried Ribena doesn’t involve the same health risks as tobacco smoke, it’s not a pleasant sensation. And I really don’t understand why some ‘vapers’ insist on using what looks like a Blue Peter rendition of Dr Who's sonic screwdriver to produce a cloud that’s large enough to be detected by a weather satellite.

At least pubs are smoke-free these days. And, if ever I needed the perfect excuse to pop out to Ringmer’s pubs for a cheering pint, this month's Viva Lewes theme was surely it. But where should I start? And, even more importantly, where should I finish? "Somewhere near home", recommends Mrs B. Wise words indeed.

I plan my route to begin at The Cock Inn, which can trace its history back to the 16th century. Contrary to my expectations, the owners say it isn't named after a male chicken but after the extra horse that was sometimes required to pull a heavy carriage up a hill. Apparently it's the type of additional horsepower necessary for the nursery rhyme journey to Banbury Cross. Next I'll head to The Anchor, established in 1742, which is described online as 'one of only 2 pubs in the village of Ringmer'. The Anchor's webmaster is clearly seeing double - and that's not enough, according to my figures, because I've yet to reach the Green Man. This, the Good Pub Guide tells me, is a 'welcoming 1930s roadside pub'. However, that's not when the name arrived: history books note the presence of a 'Green Man' in the village much earlier. All this is rather confusing, although I suppose that’s hardly surprising when alcohol is involved.

I decide to share my drink-focused journey plan with Mrs B. She looks disappointed. "You've forgotten the cricket club. And you’ve forgotten the football club, too." Indeed I have. Perhaps I could call at the cricket pavilion before crossing the village green to the Anchor, followed by a short walk round the corner to the football club. Except the cricket club bar is usually only open when there's a match - and the lack of spotlights or a pink ball means that'll be daytime. Come to think of it, I've missed the overlap between the cricket and football seasons for 2017. This has become a scheduling nightmare. I don’t even have the right kind of pet to take advantage of any dog-friendliness. Time instead to drink my troubles away with a cappuccino at Café Ringmer. As I approach, I’m sure I can smell coffee in the air. Or is it the residue of an espresso-flavoured e-cigarette?

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 133 October 2017

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

Love you like you want me to

I've had more than a few cars in my time. As a result, you may be picturing me as a young Arthur Daley. "Noisy gearbox? Chuck in a handful of sawdust and it'll run as sweet as a nut. Scratched windscreen? Polish it out with a spot of toothpaste and you'll also save on air freshener." In reality, I'm a long way from that image. Similarly, I'm neither an aspiring Lord Beaulieu nor a proto-Clarkson. Most of my car purchases have resulted from desire rather than genuine need; not from expertise but as a direct result of emotional involvement. This, I fear, makes me more like a cut-price automotive Casanova. I've bought cars because I liked the way they looked. I've bought cars to impress people. I've even bought cars to cheer myself up. But practicality? That's never been at the top of my wish list.

Yet, with our house move approaching, I consider buying a vehicle that would help us shift a few boxes. I immediately think of the Citroen CX Safari, a futuristic car from the 1970s, which resembled an upturned narrowboat and had the carrying capacity of The Old Woman Who Swallowed A Fly. However, a quick trip to the forecourt of Ringmer's Busy Bee garage reminded me that my dream vehicle is around 40 years old and more likely to be found in a museum. Time for me to admit defeat and organise a little professional help.

With the transportation for our removals in expert hands, my thoughts turn to the first time I came to Ringmer. It was around 11 years ago and I was a single man, driving my 'weekend car'. In reality it was my only car but, as someone who worked from home for much of the time, I'd chosen something slightly unusual and - okay, I admit it - not entirely sensible. It was a Jaguar XJS, as driven by Gareth Hunt in The New Avengers and by Roger Moore in The Saint. As driven by me, too. When new in 1989, it was worth around £30,000: the price of a nice little house. By the time I bought it, the value had dropped to the cost of a decent-sized shed. I was coming to the village from my home in West Sussex to meet my new girlfriend; a joyous 60-mile round trip with the V12 engine of my XJS burbling gently as I cruised along the A27. But after a few months there was a cloud to my silver lining: as well as getting to know my girlfriend, fuel economy of 15 miles per gallon meant I was becoming well acquainted with most of the petrol station staff along my route. It was time to make my first-ever sensible decision about cars. So I sold the Jag and married the girl. Mind you, my wife still insists I needn't have done both.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 131 August 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

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

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

Fleshing it out

In my mind there's an almost-onomatopoeic sizzle to the word 'flesh', echoing the fizz of a pork sausage as it bounces into a frying pan. Given such a topic for February’s column, my thoughts immediately turn to the meaty delights of Lew Howard and Son, the butcher in Ringmer’s parade of shops. I particularly like their simple process for ordering a Christmas turkey, which involves a numbered list of customers on a giant board. For a while I convinced our youngest family member that each bird was wandering around a field with a corresponding number on a label tied gently around its neck until a few days before 25th December, when it would be caught and dispatched. "Come in number 73, your time is up."

It’s probably best if I move on and find a different angle. A quick web search for 'flesh' and 'Ringmer' - for heaven's sake, don't just search for 'flesh' unless using an especially strong online filter - offers me a couple of news stories that are even darker than my sense of humour. There's a decidedly unfunny assault case from 2007 and a toe-eating maggot from 2013. Further investigation reveals the offer of a trainee sword-swallower who'll travel to the village from London. Fascinating but not immediately relevant. It’s one of those rare times when the internet is not my friend.

But that's forgetting the reason I live in Ringmer. In fact, February is the anniversary of a romantic event that resulted in me moving into the village. It has nothing to do with the mysterious Saint Valentine of Terni, who is celebrated on 14th February, but a much better-documented incident that took place a couple of days later. This, as history books don't yet tell, was when I first met my Ringmer-dwelling wife. (Not that she was my wife at the time, of course. The first time I met her in all her wifely goodness was when we married at Southover Grange, just over four years later.) “They shall be one flesh” says the Bible, perfectly on-theme for this month’s magazine. Yet despite Mrs B truly being the love of my life, I still struggle to express this coherently or without cracking a joke. Our first wedding anniversary was marked by a poem I wrote for the occasion, which featured a dreadful pun about my gift being entirely wrapping. Surprisingly well-received but I’ve subsequently wanted to do something better. Something without rhyme but with plenty of reason, you might say. Something that celebrates the unlikeliness of our meeting, the depth of our commitment and our love for each other. Something to tell everyone that my wife is the smartest and the most beautiful person I could ever hope to meet. I'm sure I'll have an idea soon. Right now? Nope. Not a sausage.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 125 February 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

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

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

In which I need more than a hand

My wife is a remarkably patient woman. I can go for days without expressing an opinion, infuriating her with phrases like "I'll have whatever you're having", only to react with zero tolerance to the smallest piece of advertising hyperbole. Today she finds me standing on a metaphorical soapbox, channelling the spirit of Tom Paine. "It's the theme for Viva Lewes magazine. They've chosen 'handmade'. I can't write a column about that. I think I'm hyperventilating." Mrs B raises an eyebrow. "Breathe into this", she says, and passes me the paper bag she keeps handy for these occasions. “Anyway, what’s bothering you?”

Well, as far as I'm concerned, 'handmade' is an empty word that's usually hyperspecific or uselessly vague. I'd argue it's as counter-intuitive as 'homemade', which is commonly used by restaurants to indicate that the relevant component of your meal was cooked in their own kitchen. In that sense, 'homemade' is actually meant to reassure us that our food wasn't made in anyone's home.

Similarly, I reckon 'handmade' has little to offer but confusion. To start with, it tells us the product isn't natural. In this sense it's the same as 'man-made' - which is reminiscent of 1970s shirts that generated enough of a static charge for the wearer to shoot electricity from their fingertips like a superhero. 'Handmade' means the item wasn't formed independently by our planet, unlike spring water, kittens and bananas. It's artificial. Yet 'handmade' also warns us that the end product isn't much good. It's not laser-cut to within a fraction of a millimetre. It's not precision engineered on a lathe. It's not been assembled by robots on a computer-controlled production line. Chances are, it's a bit rough around the edges. Artificial and imperfect. It's hardly a recommendation, is it?

Of course, there are exceptions. I'd like my art to be handmade, thank you. (Unless the artist chooses to employ another part of their anatomy.) But I'm not worried if the baker uses a mechanical mixer when making my bread.

I can tell my ranting isn't going down well at home, so I pop out for a walk round the block. On my travels I discover the recently opened and appropriately named ‎Café Ringmer (note the accent), where I order a cappuccino. The woman behind the counter creates my drink with the help of a serious-looking espresso machine. I wonder whether there ought to be a new phrase for 'handmade with the help of technology'. Maybe something sci-fi like 'cyborg-crafted' or 'mecha-enhanced employee' would be a better description. As I sip my coffee, I realise that I don't care about 'handmade'. What I care about is care itself. And if we’re using ‘handmade’ as a synonym for ‘made with care’, I’m perfectly happy with that. Because care is something that only comes from people. Much like opinions, I suppose. I’m sure Mrs B will be delighted that I’ve finally found one.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 107 August 2015

Disharmony in Ringmer

Huuuuur. Huuuuur. An unfamiliar rattling sound stirs me from my weekend lie-in. I'm just about to check Mrs B's airways before I realise the noise is coming from outside, not from my sleeping wife. One of our neighbours is mowing his lawn. Winter is officially over... as is any hope of an extra half-hour in bed. Time to put the kettle on.

Rural life has many benefits - but don't make the mistake of thinking it's all twittering skylarks, fragrant wild flowers and slow-moving Morris Minors around here. In fact, I reckon Lionel Richie would never have written the lyric 'Easy like Sunday Morning' if he'd been living in Ringmer. Certainly not if he'd relied on public transport. Instead of a gentle ballad we'd probably have something rather more frantic, inspired by Lionel nervously checking his watch and wondering whether he'd end up jogging down the new cycle path because he'd missed the hourly bus. Neither would Lionel have been particularly relaxed if he was within earshot of the village church, where one of the bells has cracked. Apparently this isn't covered by the manufacturer's warranty, despite being barely 130 years old. The offending bell currently sounds like an ancient tin bath being struck with an equally elderly saucepan, which is why it's staying quiet at the moment. The other seven bells are still being rung but the eighth is conspicuous by its absence. No, there's nothing especially easy about Sunday mornings in this part of the world.

But all this pales into insignificance when Mrs B wakes. She has a Garden Centre look in her eyes. Unfortunately it's not a 'nice mug of coffee and a bowl of soup' trip that she has in mind. In the time it took me to pop downstairs and make a cup of tea, she’s prepared a shopping list. It looks like a medieval incantation to rid one's husband of distemper, although she assures me it's merely a few Latin plant names and some organic fertiliser. My wife is the one with green fingers; my gardening performance is more akin to a Vulcan nerve pinch, inadvertently rendering plants into unconsciousness with the effortless technique of Mr Spock. It’s usually safest if I stick to digging and weeding. And with spring in the air, Mrs B’s seasonal interest in gardening will soon broaden to include other activities I’m just as poor at. There’ll be unfathomable colour charts for interior decoration. There may even be talk of choosing new cushions.

All this leaves me a long way outside my comfort zone, so there’s only one thing left to do. One last desperate attempt to escape all these challenges. Something that’ll outclass my neighbour’s garden-tidying efforts, too. Most importantly, it’s traditional. It’s a ritual that’s been passed from generation to generation since the dawn of history. It’s a Sunday morning routine that unites communities. It’s time I went to the tip.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 103 April 2015.

Stepping out in style

I'm getting ready to head into Lewes. I've put my shoes on and I'm already slipping my left arm into my coat when I realise my wife has a kink in her eyebrow. I know what this means. I double-check my outfit. No fluorescent socks. No breakfast on my trousers. I give up. "What?"

"You're not wearing a jumper.” Indeed I'm not. I am, however, wearing a navy blue shirt. Dark colours for winter, pale colours for summer. Surely darker colours are warmer. But I can’t possibly explain this to her, so instead I choose the sensible option. "I'll just grab a cardie. Won't be a moment."

As a child, I was encouraged to wear a vest, despite the unfashionable nature of the garment. I rebelled for a while. These days I've progressed to something that calls itself a 'technical layer'. Technically it is a vest, although I convince myself I’m dressed like a mountain-climbing athlete when I wear it. Most importantly, no-one can see it. Despite having grown older and theoretically wiser, I still don’t want to look un-cool.

You see, many people make fashion mistakes by choosing clothes that wouldn’t really suit anyone. That’s not my style, if you’ll forgive the pun. Whilst I know it’s best if I stay away from flared dungarees and leather trousers, it’s taken me a while to realise that everyday clothes can also be worn in the wrong way. When it’s done deliberately – I'm reminded of a school friend who subverted the dress code by wearing two ties – the results are intentionally amusing. My worry is inadvertently breaking the unwritten rules of good taste. Since my teens, I’ve discovered that a perfectly serviceable pair of socks must never be paired with an equally serviceable pair of sandals. I’ve learned that Suzi Quatro is the only person allowed to wear a denim jacket with jeans. And I’ve realised that a tracksuit is intended for use on a track, not as a suit.

Yet there’s still one area of fashion that I’ve not quite mastered: holiday clothes. I’ve noticed that we Brits really seem to choose dramatically different dress when we’re on holiday, even when our destination isn’t that far away and our lifestyle hasn’t changed. Suddenly we’re donning storm-proof cagoules. Camouflage shorts. Climbing boots. Sarongs. All just for a trip to the shops.

There’s one problem. When I come to Lewes from my home in Ringmer, I'm a visitor too. So is it wrong to turn up in my regular clothes? Would it be better if I identified myself as a tourist by wearing an arctic explorer’s fleece and eating an ice cream? On second thoughts, forget the cardigan. I need a pair of plastic clogs. Accessorised with ski socks, naturally.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 102 March 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.

Having a wonderful time…

We're on holiday in Cornwall, leaving Ringmer free for Cornish tourists to visit. "What do you write in a postcard?" says my wife, as we shelter from the drizzle. Sadly she's not asking because she needs my literary skills. No, she doesn't see me as Hemingway in a Hawaiian shirt or Oscar Wilde with a suntan. It's purely practical guidance she's looking for.

Quite simply, she wants me to provide a summary of holiday highlights. But what have we done? We've eaten out a bit... but that's hardly unusual. In fact, there's not even a branch of Bill's around here, despite the company's recent expansion rate being equivalent to a culinary Big Bang. Perhaps my wife and I have been indulging in some holiday vices? Nope. Admittedly my pasty consumption is up, yet my coffee and cake consumption has dropped. No overall gain, I say.

I struggle to think how our behaviour has differed from any other day away from work. Let's see. Sometimes on holiday I wear trousers that convert into shorts. They seemed a good idea at the time. Instead of doing what non-holiday people do - checking the weather forecast before they leave home - I have trousers that contain a plastic zip below the knee. One day some enterprising sportswear manufacturer will probably create a jacket that transforms into a waistcoat and then a vest. I may buy one, despite the risk of ending up with just a single sleeve.

My wife was prepared for the rain and is dressed in a heavy-duty waterproof jacket. This is her sartorial antidote to my convertible shorts. It's a remarkable garment that appears to intensify her annoyance with the weather, compressing and focusing it into a glum laser burning from underneath the peaked hood. The result is like having a water-cannon aimed at your soul. In this coat she's barely recognisable as the woman I married, although I hardly dare look at her in case she turns me into a pillar of salt and then washes me away.

Anything else? Well, because I've been wearing shorts and sandals, my ankles are now sunburned. Under any other circumstance, a potentially carcinogenic injury that caused my skin to peel off would be treated as a medical emergency. Yet, from a holiday perspective, tradition dictates it should be viewed as somewhere between mildly annoying and hilariously funny.

I'm about to suggest this as a starting point for the postcard when there's a commotion down the street. As I turn to see what's causing the fuss, I notice a seagull fly out from a crowd of people. Adults are shouting at it. Children are laughing. The seagull displays a mouthful of stolen chips as it passes.

I steal a glance at my wife. She seems to be smiling. I wonder if she's amused by the seagull's antics. Then I see she's just written the phrases 'pink ankle' and 'comedy trousers' on her postcard.

First published on VivaLewes.com 14th August 2014