Garden centred

I head over the border into West Sussex to see mum, who treats me to lunch at a garden centre. I’m served a perfectly acceptable snack that comprises an Italian-style sandwich with Italian-style ingredients on Italian-style bread, finished off with an Italian-style coffee. To continue the continental theme there's even an advertisement for 'Italian grown plants' on the table. Apparently these plants spend their childhood in Tuscany, which means they're well suited to the south of England. I gaze through the double-glazed window at the nose-to-tail traffic outside. It starts to rain. The concept of homesick shrubs begins to trouble me, so I distract myself by looking inside the garden centre instead.

When I was younger, places were always what they claimed to be. Garden centres sold grass. Supermarkets sold food. Airports were where you caught a plane. Not any more. Everywhere is a 'destination'. Take this freshly-expanded garden centre, for example. There's a pizza oven in the restaurant. There's a conference room to hire; ideal for the kind of business meeting that needs to be held in a plant-themed retail environment. There's free Wi-Fi. Gifts. Kitchenware. Stationery. Shortbread biscuits in enamel tins. A chaise longue, for heaven’s sake.

Meanwhile, supermarkets now sell televisions, airports play host to celebrity restaurants and almost every petrol station has a coffee machine. Mind you, occasionally the coffee tastes as though it’s kept in the same storage tanks as the fuel.

Arriving back home, I find our resident teenager suffering from ennui. "Ringmer is boring", he tells me, before adding "there's nothing to do". Rather than draw attention to the unnecessary duplication in his weary claim, I'm prepared to admit he has a point. It's not that Ringmer really is boring. Definitely not. But our little village can sometimes appear a bit on the quiet side.

I reckon I have the perfect solution. All we need to do is put a roof on the entire place and call it a multimedia experience. Our church is smarter than the average airport chapel, our garden centre actually grows plants and our pubs are livelier than any tacky themed bar. Come to Ringmer retail park: where everything makes sense.

First published on vivalewes.com 21st March 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

Better than Barcelona

I've just returned from four busy days working in Barcelona. (No, I'm not expecting sympathy. There are very few UK jobs that wouldn't be enhanced if they were transposed to the Spanish coast, although being an umbrella salesperson might be more of a challenge). For the last few years Catalonia's main city has hosted Mobile World Congress, an event that sees thousands upon thousands of phone manufacturers, network operators and software developers dragging their wheeled suitcases along cobbled pavements. If there's a single sound that says 'business trip', it's the noise of a wheeled suitcase being dragged by a man in a suit. Anyway, I was there... and unlike many of my fellow travellers, I was struggling with a heavy bag slung casually over my shoulder in order to blend in with the locals. I'd also chosen to wear a bright orange jacket in a bid to look 'European'. Well, I'd heard numerous tales of conference visitors being targeted by pickpockets.

I learned three things from this trip. Firstly, my shoulders are not especially rugged. It's clear that my mother held me by the shoulder, rather than by the traditional heel, when giving me my childhood dip in the River Styx. Next time my suitcase won't just have wheels, I'll make sure there's an outboard motor as well. Secondly, an orange jacket is as much a fashion statement in Spain as it is in the UK - which is another way of saying I stuck out like a sore carrot. On a positive note, dressing as a fluorescent hunchback is apparently off-putting to street criminals.

But perhaps most importantly, I learned that Barcelona is very similar to Ringmer. Except Ringmer is better. Let's begin with the Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's stunning eighteen-spired church. It was started back in the 19th century and still gives the impression of being a work in progress. Ringmer's church may be a little smaller but it's definitely finished. Next, there's Iberian ham. This is traditionally prepared on a jamonera, which looks like the offspring of a breadboard and a medieval punishment, and is usually carved with the unfortunate pig's trotter still attached. Our local butcher wouldn't dream of selling meat without lopping the foot off first. On the subject of food, visit many restaurants in Barcelona and they'll serve you tapas. Visit Ringmer and you'll be offered full-size meals. That's three-nil to us already. Talking of soccer scores, Barcelona has a football club based at the inappropriately-named Camp Nou: the ‘new field’. Inappropriate because it's now over 50 years old. Ringmer's football team play at the Caburn Ground, a fitting name as it’s been overlooked by Mount Caburn since the Cretaceous Period around 100 million years ago.

Finally, there's language. Barcelona is proudly Catalonian, so you'll hear both Spanish and Catalan spoken in the city. Yet Ringmer is a one-language village, making life much easier. Sure, you may hear the occasional villager telling you he wunt be druv but you don't need to juggle two phrasebooks when you visit us. Maybe I ought to have a word with Ringmer's parish council. I reckon we should put in a bid to host 70,000 mobile phone specialists. My shoulder would certainly appreciate it.

First published on vivalewes.com 7th March 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

The galloping gourmet

Horse meat again. Don't know where, don't know when. But I know we've not seen the last of the equine puns. With dodgy processed food still in the headlines - it's been the mane news, you might say - we'll be hearing these jokes furlong time. We're saddled with them.

However, the curious incident of the horse in the lasagne isn't an unbridled disaster. It's made many of us aware of the vast amount of food miles in a processed meal... and it's encouraged people to visit their nearest butcher rather than a supermarket. Here in Ringmer, we have an outstandingly good one. He's definitely able to assure you of the provenance of his produce - yet too much information can sometimes seem uncomfortably personal. I'm reminded of a holiday during which the local butcher recommended the lamb because "you can taste the heather from the hills here". That's only one step away from meeting its parents and seeing photos of it as a baby.

In case you're wondering, I've been a vegetarian but at the moment I'm a carnivore. My return to flesh-eating started innocuously enough: I wouldn't buy meat although I'd eat it if invited to dinner at someone else's house. Seemed rude not to. But before I knew it, I'd begun feeling sorry for left-over food. A couple of reduced-price kidneys at the end of the day?   I tracked down a recipe and dined on devilled kidneys for just 50p. Three miserable looking sardines?   Grilled with a green salad (and gutted with guidance from Delia, who helped me discover that the fishiest smell in the world could be found inside a fish. A bargain nonetheless). I had become a kind-of culinary St Francis, saving the least loved creatures for my plate.

Today, I've put my 'sad food' phase behind me. But it's left me thinking about a solution to the crisis that's hit our meat industry. First of all, if you're worried about what you're eating, simply buy something recognisable. Rabbit looks a lot like rabbit. A pork chop will contain 100% pork. You're unlikely to mistake a chicken for too much else. Oxtail is disconcertingly tail-like. Retailers need to start promoting animal-shaped meals.

And if that doesn't increase sales, I have a second plan. I suggest giving every animal a name that engenders sympathy - maybe Brunhilde for cows, Enid for chickens - and labelling its products with a photograph of the creature looking particularly depressed. I reckon that would work well... at least until someone asked "why the long face?"

First published on vivalewes.com 21st February 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

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/