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 snow man

Ask when a boy becomes a man and you're likely to receive a variety of answers that involve driving, voting, responsibility and drinking beer. We've identified a new indicator in our household... and it's come from the heavens. Cold weather had been predicted all week, so it was no surprise when the snow finally arrived last Friday. Our resident teenager provided regular forecasts from the internet as soon as he was home from college, then swaddled himself in scarves on Saturday and cheerfully walked through the snow to his part-time job. By Sunday night he was much less happy. "I'm bored with the snow", he moaned. "There's nothing to do". And so adulthood begins. On a personal note, it's the cold rather than the boredom that troubles me. My fingers turn blue, my face goes white and I need to stamp my feet to improve the circulation as I walk, which means I look rather like a tap-dancing zombie on ice.

I'm doing my best to stay warm, of course. I've heard you can lose 45% of your body heat through your head so I located my knitted bobble hat and wore it as I wandered up to the shops. Not only did I discover the 45% figure is an urban myth, I also learned you can lose 90% of your credibility through your hat. After a while I stopped answering people who either told me they'd found Wally or asked me where Big Ears was.

However, the snow reminded me about two major benefits of living in Ringmer. Firstly, our local butcher has a stockpile of frozen rabbits. Mind you, I imagine there isn't much extra freezing needed if they're caught at this time of year. Yes, I'll get by without my rabbit pie... but that's not necessary in these parts.

Then there are the grit lorries. Although no-one's ever discovered how a gritter driver gets to work in the snow, they always seem to manage. We’re lucky enough to have a colony of gritters (or is it a pride?) nestled in the centre of Ringmer. These magnificent beasts hide during daylight hours and only emerge at night to mark their territory with a glistening salty trail. "The gritters were out again today", announces the teenager with a level of enthusiasm usually only heard when David Attenborough is talking about gorillas. "Do the drivers take them home? That looks like a good job."

Perhaps snow isn't so boring after all.

First published on vivalewes.com 24th January 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

No New Year revolution

Welcome to 2013, the year after the year the world didn't end.

It was an odd thing, all that apocalyptic anxiety about the Mayan calendar last month. Apparently the Maya counted days using a system that ended on 21st December 2012, which prompted some people to anticipate a cataclysm. I wasn't convinced but then I've got a Casio digital watch with a 'universal calendar' until 2039. My biggest concern is remembering to put it on eBay in around 25 years’ time. Our resident teenager expected some form of zombie attack and spent most of the month preparing for it by battling reanimated corpses on his Xbox. Mind you, he still bought Christmas presents for us in case the undead didn't inherit the earth.

Although 2013 isn't going to be popular with many triskaidekaphobes - every Friday 13th will have an extra sting in the tail - I'm not especially bothered by the supernatural. In fact, I've been feeling positive enough to consider making a new year's resolution. Now, I ruled out any kind of health-related commitment pretty quickly. Jogging in the rain isn't fun. My nearest indoor fitness facility is Ringmer pool, which would be okay if I had Daniel Craig's swimming trunks. And his looks. Anyway, I've been known to run for the 28 bus. Even worrying that I'll miss the bus burns calories, doesn't it?

Then there's personal improvement. I considered a resolution about honesty but already believe it’s generally best to tell the truth. Offering fashion advice and receiving unwanted Christmas gifts are the usual exceptions I've discovered in recent weeks. "Yes, it suits you perfectly. How wonderful, I've always wanted one of those". Okay, I confess I haven't told various family members they sometimes appear in this very vivalewes.com column although neither have I been untruthful. I may occasionally employ hyperbole, pathos and a little incidental music to make a point... but I really do live in Ringmer with two cats, a non-fictional wife and a vampire hunter.

Ah yes, Ringmer. Much as I might try to convince my mother it's an upmarket suburb of Lewes - rather like South Kensington is to London or Beverly Hills is to the county of Los Angeles - we all know that's not the case. Korean pop-master Psy isn't coming here to record 'Ringmer Style'. (It would be similar to Gangnam Style but with fewer cars and more horse-riding). We're simply a village that's fortunate to have a parade of shops and an assortment of other local facilities. Therefore my resolution for 2013 is that I'll use them more than I did last year, making the most of what I’m lucky enough to have on my doorstep. We may not have the variety of retail outlets you'll find in Lewes... but that's hardly the end of the world, is it?

First published on vivalewes.com 10th January 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

I bring you bad tidings

Since Victorian times there's been an unwritten Christmas tradition in Britain. Anyone who says anything negative about the season will be called ‘a Scrooge’. Regardless of any concerns about the estate of Charles Dickens taking legal action over copyright, you're only allowed to be upbeat. EastEnders is bad, Morecambe & Wise are good. Disagree and Santa's little helpers will throw mistletoe at you. This was brought home to me last weekend when I went Christmas shopping in Lewes with my lovely wife. Whilst she stocked up on glittery cards, I distracted myself with my mobile phone. After a while I noticed she'd put her potential purchases down, mainly because she couldn't hold them at the same time as folding her arms in a threatening manner. "Stop tweeting", she told me. "I don't want to read your sarcastic comments when I get home". She was right, of course. This year, more than ever, there seems to be an inclination to treat Christmas with excess humour. To follow the 2012 trend I should have been offering my wit to everyone as we walked through the shops, not muttering to a tiny audience on the internet. There's postmodern irony wherever you look. The gingerbread latte has become a long-established festive drink. Sparkly shirts are now essential fashion for your office party. All mum's hard work will be ignored... but that's just the way things are, ho ho. Better stuff the turkey with indigestion tablets, eh? When you've finished laughing, you can move on to enjoying a wry smile. Listen to yuletide songs that talk about escaping the crowds to find a few minutes of peace, of battling through the supermarket aisles but discovering the true meaning of Christmas regardless. Watch seasonal TV programmes where everything falls apart before everything comes together. It's all wrong. Wrong, I tell you. We need to get back to a traditional Christmas.

So let's start with the Winter Solstice, a festival so significant that the ancient Brits toiled for many years to build Stonehenge as a place to celebrate it. Winter was a scary time in those days; reaching the solstice meant you stood a half-decent chance of surviving for another year without finding your family marked as tumuli on an Ordnance Survey map. Then there's 25th December itself, which commemorates Jesus being put in a feeding trough by his affianced mother because there was no room for him anywhere else. Christmas, therefore, is traditionally about being terrified. About working long hours to create something that's ultimately pointless. About awkward moments with the relatives. About important plans that didn't turn out as expected.

But that’s not to say we should be miserable now. In fact, I have the perfect role model. A man who laughed because he was genuinely happy, not because he was mocking the festive season. A man who realised Christmas was an excellent opportunity to help others. A generous man, a friendly man... and a man who enjoyed a joke, too. It’s Ebenezer Scrooge.

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

Sing when you’re winning

We're well blessed for football in these parts. There are teams (yes, plural!) up here in Ringmer, Lewes has the Rooks and there's also Brighton & Hove Albion down the road in Falmer. I'll happily support local teams against their more-travelled opponents but I've never really been passionate about a particular club. This reluctance can probably be traced back to childhood. You see, I wasn't much good at football when I was younger; my usual role was that of scapegoat or 'defender' as my so-called mates described it. Unlike one of the children in my class, I didn't have the same permed hairstyle as Peter Ward. Heck, I played a musical instrument - apparently a sure indication that I was both homosexual and knew nothing about sport, according to my many detractors. And so I didn't support anyone. It was safer than choosing the wrong team.

My wife has a very different perspective. Born in Bolton, she's followed Bolton Wanderers throughout their oscillations between the top and bottom of the football league. With the 'Trotters' coming to the AmEx stadium for the first time, she was definitely going... and despite Brighton & Hove Albion tickets being easier to buy, we were heading for the 'away' end of the stands. Yes, we. I was to become a football fan.

The Saturday of the match was pretty wet; weather that would favour the northerners, I thought. The absence of my half-namesake, Wayne Bridge, from the Brighton line-up was an encouraging sign as well. At the very least it meant I wouldn't be standing in a crowd of people cursing my family name.

The positive omens were soon dispatched as Brighton started attacking. A number of Bolton's supporters responded with songs that seemed to condemn their rivals as being homosexual (this is starting to sound familiar) although the words weren't entirely clear. And if I couldn't make them out, I doubt that Brighton's players would have been too bothered. After Brighton scored, the Bolton fans turned into their own harshest critics and my wife's Lancashire accent intensified to the extent that she became utterly unintelligible. Fortunately I could interpret her facial expressions. She certainly wasn't happy.

The singing from the other terraces increased to a deafening level. Seaaa-guuuls. I kept quiet even though I knew the words to this one. I still couldn’t identify the lyrics to any of the Bolton football chants but was quickly learning the actions.

And then Bolton scored in the last few seconds of the game. They'd managed a draw. Suddenly the Albion weren't singing any more. As the final whistle blew, Bolton's fans tearfully embraced each other. Under different circumstances there'd have been a song for that kind of behaviour.

First published on vivalewes.com 29th November 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

Existential angst and egg sandwiches

It's not often that we have a family get-together. I visit mum most weeks, despite her apparent conviction that my journey from East Sussex to West Sussex is rather like crossing Berlin in the 1960s. She sees my brother more frequently, mainly because he doesn't live on the wrong side of Checkpoint Charlie. I sometimes feel under enormous pressure to defect to the West... but I also feel sure we're equally loved.

Little brother - for I'm two years ahead of him - has a whirlwind lifestyle that leaves me out of breath. Working long hours during the week, worthy deeds most evenings, golf at the weekend. Either that or he's very good at avoiding me. This week we managed to catch up, putting the world to rights by debating mobile phone technology, science fiction films and parking charges. The important stuff.

Sadly this family reunion wasn't a happy occasion. We were getting together for the funeral of a friend.

Now, I'm no fan of funerals. Unlike many of my mother's mates, I don't have a special funeral coat. I haven't turned funeral attendance into a hobby. I can even manage without the egg sandwich and cup of tea afterwards. You might think this sounds like fear and denial. Let's just say I'm more than a little disappointed that immortality isn't available on the NHS yet. At the very least, I reckon it should be possible to fit me with an atomic-powered mechanical exoskeleton by now. You know, rather like Robert Downey Jr in Iron Man. Not that I need it at the moment, although it would come in handy when running for the bus.

Anyway, my brother and I were chatting after the funeral and arrived slightly late at the wake, which meant most of the egg sandwiches had gone. As we're piling our tiny plates with spring rolls and cold pepperoni pizza, mum asks if one of us can refill her tea cup. Little brother obliges and I hear mum saying "my son is pouring me another cup". Not 'my younger son'. Not 'one of my sons'. I raise my eyebrows and turn to my brother, who looks apologetic. I'm not surprised. He's probably getting a mechanical exoskeleton for Christmas.

First published on vivalewes.com 15th November 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

When age goes out the window

"Age is just a number". That's a phrase much used by my mother, particularly when deflecting unwanted questions about her birthday. Mind you, I think I've picked up some of the attitude. I'm certainly not happy about getting older. This dissatisfaction isn't usually obvious until I'm involved in some kind of activity that requires me to be categorised. Surveys (between 18 and 65, since you ask), holidays (not eligible for Saga discounts yet), pubs (go on, ask me if I’ve got any I.D.), car insurance (too old to be a boy racer) and so on. This week I've added parenthood to my list of annoying age-related assumptions... but first I'd like to clarify something. I'm not a parent. My lovely wife was already equipped with children and cats when we met, which has excused me from all manner of toilet training. It has, however, resulted in me becoming a step-father.

And there I go. I've been placed in an age bracket. People are picturing me walking through Lewes with one of those three-wheeled buggies and a cat on my shoulder. Nope, that's not me. Besides, the story I want to tell involves a step-daughter locking herself out of her home. That puts me in a different demographic, doesn't it?

Anyway, the event was the highlight of my week, so I shall tell my tale whilst attempting to maintain an illusion of agelessness.

A few days ago the phone rang at home. I didn't rush to answer it because I don't own any children or cats, not because I wasn't feeling especially spritely. It was the aforementioned step-youngster, somewhat concerned because she was locked out and her dinner was locked in. There was a little window open at the side of the house but neither she nor her boyfriend could reach in to open a larger window. Under other circumstances they'd have been pleased with the level of security. Not that night. We assembled a crack team of housebreakers - me, wife, resident teenager - and set off down the road with the tools of our newly-adopted trade. I had a small hammer and two screwdrivers, mainly because I'd once seen someone steal a car on The Bill with similar equipment. My wife had a wire coat hanger. Her son was in charge of the ladder.

On arrival my wife dismantled the coat hanger and started fishing through the letter box. The teenager held his ladder as nonchalantly as possible.

I climbed the ladder, reached in, unlocked the large window, realised I couldn't get back out without displacing my sternum on the latch, wriggled in through the little window and exited via the front door whilst avoiding the coat hanger. Cue applause.

I’m told this is the sort of thing that parents are expected to do. But an old chap couldn't have done that, could he?

First published on vivalewes.com 1st November 2012: http://vivalewes.com/