It’s all in the mind

The border into West Sussex has been left unguarded, so I slip across to see mum. I’m starting to look out for any signs that her brain isn’t as sharp as it once was. Not that she’s given me any immediate cause for concern; it’s just that some of her contemporaries are suffering from assorted memory-related conditions. But how can I check whether she has an active mind?

When I arrive at mum’s house, I knock at the back door and walk in. I call out “hello”. She replies “I’m busy threading a needle with invisible cotton.” Oh dear. Is this an early sign? Is she preparing to make a new suit for the emperor? I breathe a sign of relief when I see the reel of transparent thread. She’s not lost the plot, she’s repairing some clothing.

I shouldn’t really worry. Mum’s not shown any signs of slowing down. Certainly not when she’s in the car, anyway. If you’re in anything less powerful than a Bugatti Veyron, she’ll leave you standing at the traffic lights. All this in a curiously tall vehicle that’s powered by a modified hairdryer.

But the real reassurance comes when we start talking. Mum’s been watching television coverage of Prince William and the Duchess of Cambridge visiting New Zealand. More specifically, she’s been watching young Prince George. She’s been suitably entertained, which is exactly as it should be. Apparently the Royal Family costs each of us 57p a year to maintain, so mum’s getting good value for money. One of her friends, however, has been critical. As a result, mum isn’t happy.

“She said little George should have been wrapped up warm when he came off that plane”, reports mum. “And he should have been wearing a hat to protect him from the sun.” The inconsistency has annoyed her as much as the denigration of Kate’s parenting skills.

There is, however, worse to come. “She’s been going on about that gay marriage, too. She says it means that brothers and sisters could end up marrying each other.” I struggle to make any sense of this statement. Fortunately mum’s been given an explanation. “She said gay couples could adopt children without knowing their backgrounds, so they could be brother and sister without realising, and then those children might get married.” Mum wasn’t having any of this nonsense. “I told them it was rubbish. Anyway, that Elton John and his partner have adopted two boys, so that couldn’t happen to them.”

“You should tell her it could now, mum. Now that the law’s changed. Two men can get married.” Mum smiles. It’s not a benign parental smile. It’s the smile of a mother who’s looking to cause trouble when she sees her friend again. Is it possible to have a mind that’s too active?

First published on Viva Lewes 10th April 2014: www.vivalewes.com

Who’s the talk of the town?

I'm increasingly famous... and it's no fun. While Chris Martin asks for privacy as he 'consciously uncouples', while George Michael does his best to dodge the paparazzi, I've discovered my own challenges. But this fame hasn't come from my music. No, it's come from deep within the virtual world of the internet. Let me explain.

There are two so-called social internet services I'm fairly keen on. One is Twitter, where I'll occasionally share a 140-character slice of my action-packed life with whosoever is reading. (Recent example: "I've been photographing eco-friendly cat litter scoops".) The other is Foursquare, which lets users 'check in' on their mobile phones and tell others where they are. From cafés to chemists, you can report where you are and add a photo or a few comments. "Why would you do that?", I hear someone ask. Hang on a moment, mother, I'm about to tell you.

There are, as far as I'm concerned, three reasons for using Foursquare. There's a good old-fashioned sense of self-importance. I'm still working on that one. There's the idea that you may be helping other people make decisions. Joining the cub scouts strengthened that feeling many years ago. And then there's the competitive element. You see, Foursquare has 'gamified' the process of checking in. If you check-in to a particular venue more than everyone else, you'll automatically be appointed 'mayor'. There's no chain of office, no extra responsibility and no recognition in the place itself, just the motivation of climbing to the top of the list. While anyone can add their house to Foursquare and become a legend in their own larder, it's easy to catch the bug and begin checking in wherever you go.

Which brings me to my fame. The Foursquare bug bit me a few years ago. Thanks to frequent visits and regular online check-ins, I'm currently the mayor of the corner shop in the village. At the moment my mobile phone tells me I'm also mayor of Lewes Tesco, mayor of Waitrose and mayor of an assortment of coffee shops across Sussex. In fact, I'm mayor of so many places that the novelty is wearing off. The game isn't fun any more. What can I do?

Well, I reckon I need to borrow a solution from real-world renown. It's time to take a break from checking in as much. Let my unelected rule lapse. Hide my phone and become an internet recluse for a while. And then, if I'm still interested, I can try to win back my crown. Yes, I’m going to stage a come-back tour.

First published on Viva Lewes 28th March 2014: www.vivalewes.com

The man with the golden croissant

I like living in Ringmer. As I've mentioned before, I reckon it's close enough to Lewes for me to enjoy the benefits of the town without subjecting me to any of its disadvantages.

However, there's one notable flaw in this plan. It's the croissant situation. Don't worry, we're not completely bereft of pastries here. Croissants are available in Ringmer... but only when the weekend arrives. It's as though a local bylaw prohibits their sale at the bakery except on a Saturday. Asking for one during the week prompts the kind of response usually reserved for someone ordering roasted ortolan in a vegetarian brasserie.

Therefore, if I ever want a mid-week cappuccino and a croissant, I need to travel beyond the parish boundary. Although I'll occasionally walk into Lewes when the weather is good, I'm most likely to rely on the 28 bus - or its lesser-known relative, the 143 - for a trip into town. To catch the bus, I simply leave home five minutes before it's due to turn up. At least, that's what I did when I originally moved to the village. These days I allow just two minutes. Some would say I'm getting lazy. I blame James Bond.

You see, I saw the latest Bond film when it was released in cinemas about 18 months ago. 'Skyfall' looked back at the fifty-year history of the 007 franchise while also preparing the audience for an equally lengthy future. And it did all this after making us sit through the longest set of on-screen advertisements since Pearl first met Dean. But commercial considerations aside, I was suitably entertained. Daniel Craig makes a compelling secret agent. He runs, fights and generally behaves exactly as an action-hero should... all while wearing a suit.

Which brings me back to the issue of catching the bus. Once, running for the bus would have made me look like a bit of a loser. I’d be a middle-aged bloke whose life was in disarray. Now, thanks to the work of Mr Craig, I'm the coolest man around. Even with a laptop under my arm and the power cable trailing behind me, I could be mistaken for an employee of MI6 rather than a chap whose watch is slow. Unfortunately I've not done the fitness training required by Her Majesty's Secret Service. Despite doing my best to maintain a stoic appearance, I'm a little shaken by the time I arrive at the bus stop. Similar to 007's vodka martini, you might say.

First published on Viva Lewes 13th March 2014: www.vivalewes.com

Gonna get myself connected

This is around the time of year when I usually spend a couple of days at a trade show in Barcelona. In fact, it’s exactly that time of year. I’m writing from my second-floor room at Pension Norma, which translates as ‘hotel rule’ according to my mobile phone. Either that’s very prosaic or my phone’s not really trying. My phone also tells me I’m 655 miles from the nearest pint of Harveys, so perhaps it’s simply feeling a little homesick.

It’s not only my phone that’s pining for Sussex. My wife, along with her teenager and cats, has remained at home. Despite the excitement of my trip, I miss them… and I’m sure they miss me. (Well, to be honest, three of them probably just miss my ability to fill a bowl with dinner at the appropriate time.) Fortunately I should be able to persuade the aforementioned phone to give them a ring.

If you’ve not spotted a theme here, let me explain. It’s going to be a phone-filled week because my chosen trade show is all about mobile technology. And whilst I’m not expecting a great deal of sympathy for my plight, I can assure you it isn’t all tapas and tortillas. There are early starts, crowded trains and traffic queues to contend with before I begin my work for the day. If I’d wanted that kind of nonsense, I’d have found a job in London.

Inside the show, I’m one of eighty-five thousand people milling about. Each exhibitor is doing their best to attract my attention and extend my stay. Curiously, each seems determined to reinforce national stereotypes as well. My conversation with an Austrian company includes a cup of coffee and a marzipan Mozartkugel. The Scottish contingent is hosting an evening of whiskey tasting. A French company has wine while a German exhibitor has employed two Spanish women to wear traditional Bavarian clothing. There’s tea and biscuits when I talk to an English software developer. I chat to him until the biscuits run out.

Back in my hotel room, when the buzz of the show has faded, I call home and catch up with the latest news. All’s well. After saying goodnight, I check for email messages and prepare my agenda for tomorrow. Don’t get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoy the event – but I’d enjoy it even more if a Spanish day included 36 hours and my hotel room contained a teleporter instead of a wardrobe. I open the Harveys app on my phone again. Still 655 miles from a pint. I walk across the room and stand next to the window. The display changes. 654 miles. I’m feeling better already.

First published on Viva Lewes 27th February 2014: www.vivalewes.com

Looking down on creation

My broadband connection has slowed to a speed that still permits me to work but rules out the possibility of downloading any cat videos. As far as I'm concerned, the internet might as well be broken. It reminds me of the days when I had a dial-up modem plugged into the telephone line, when sending an email was always accompanied by a noise that sounded rather like The Clangers singing barbershop harmony. Before long I may need to find my mother’s old typewriter - stored in the 'things that might be valuable one day' box, along with a couple of blown TV valves and a mechanical cassette tape rewinder - and soak its desiccated ribbon in a bottle of ink. Or perhaps not. I'd probably better stop reminiscing before I start to sound like Rick Wakeman, who's becoming better known for his grumpy-old-man views on body piercing than for playing a prog rock tribute to Henry VIII’s wives.

This technological blip has resulted from living in a village rather than a town, I'm certain. Whilst Lewesians can enjoy super-fast broadband that arrives down translucent fibre-optic cables, we villagers are still reliant on wires that are made from... well, wire, I suppose. You could almost think that broadband providers didn't care about us.

It prompted me to remember a newspaper report I saw a few weeks ago. A recent study at Oxford University touched on the topic of 'short person syndrome', which is the phrase often used to describe someone who appears to be compensating for their below-average height with an aggressive or dominant personality. Researchers created a 'virtual reality' experience that made volunteers appear to be on a crowded tube train where everyone else was much taller than they would have been in real life. It seems the result was an increase of negative feelings and mistrust. It provided useful insight into treating paranoia... but that won't get in the way of a good headline. "Short person syndrome is real", shouted several newspapers, delighting in the opportunity to confirm another stereotype.

All this had me wondering whether there was a similar condition of 'small village syndrome' affecting us here in Ringmer. While many of our local businesses can more than hold their own against the 'big boys' in town, woe betide anyone who suggests any of the facilities here aren't as impressive as those elsewhere. Some may even say a few of those 'big boys' were trying to steal away business from local traders. Are they really ganging up on us?

I put the 'small village syndrome' theory to my wife. "That's rubbish", she told me sensitively. "Ringmer is actually one of the largest villages in Sussex." I dug around in the 'things that might be valuable one day' box and found an Ordnance Survey map. Ringmer certainly does look pretty large. Hang on a moment. The village is 40 metres above sea level. Ha!  We're taller than you.

First published on vivalewes.com 13th February 2014: www.vivalewes.com

Just the ticket

I'm waiting to catch the bus home. I've just missed the number 28 bus to Ringmer, which now seems really pleased with itself. This is clear from the enthusiastic behaviour I've recently observed. You see, every half an hour the bus arrives outside Waitrose after driving down Market Street and past both ends of East Street. Having collected its passengers - sometimes kneeling to help those less-agile travellers - it then does a victory lap by heading up School Hill and away from Ringmer before going back down Market Street again. Yes, I’m sure that’s a victory lap. It's the kind of celebration you don't usually see unless you’re at a Grand Prix circuit. Much as I'm inclined to commend anyone who enjoys their job, it seems a bit extreme. If this sort of showboating is allowed to continue, there'll be drift-racing round the bus station before long.

Perhaps it's pleased at having seen off a young upstart. Just over a year ago we were blessed with the appearance of hybrid buses on the 28 route. These weren't hybrids in the same sense as a labradoodle or a centaur. No, they were definitely all bus. However, they had an electric motor as well as a conventional diesel engine, which meant less pollution and generally 'greener' credentials. They would even announce the name of the next stop. Most impressively, they moved away from a bus stop relatively quietly before the main engine started. Not actually 'silently', mind you. These buses weren't likely to sneak up on you like a mischievous whale; more like a giant Scalextric car, really.

Sadly, I've not seen those high-tech hybrid buses in Ringmer for a while. I'm told it's because they're more efficient on shorter stop/start trips rather than the marathon journey to our village. Oh well. At least I can talk to myself on the top deck without being interrupted by an invisible conductor.

As I look up from my daydreaming, I spot another 28 bus pulling away from me. Drat. I've already had one free Waitrose coffee, so I don't want to wait another 30 minutes. The bus begins its little dance around the town centre. Hang on a moment. Here’s an idea. I reckon I can just about sprint to the bus stop outside Tesco while it's messing about. Running my own victory lap, you might say.

First published on vivalewes.com 23rd January 2014: www.vivalewes.com

Focussing on the future

There's no escaping the past. It trails behind each of us like a scarf that's just about to fall out of your coat pocket into a puddle. Excuse me a moment while I pick up my soggy woollen snake and wrap it nonchalantly around my shoulders. No-one noticed, did they?

As far as I'm concerned, the recent past contains too many mince pies and not enough exercise. Yet distant events can leave an even longer-lasting impression. Taking a pastry-fuelled walk round the streets of Ringmer reveals much of the village's history through its street names. There's Springett Avenue, which carries the family name of Gulielma Springett. She married William Penn, who founded the state of Pennsylvania in the USA. Another American link can be seen in Harvard Road and Sadlers Way, celebrating the husband and wife (John and Ann) who established Harvard University. I am literally following the path of history. Maybe generations in the future will talk of Scarfpuddle Lane, where I once trod.

Yes, I'm in a philosophical mood… but I don’t think it’s just me. At this time of year we all tend to spend more time than usual thinking about events that have happened in the previous 12 months. Reviews of 2013, news quizzes, anniversaries, that kind of thing. Many of us then start to regret what we've done and make plans to be better people. These resolutions tend to fall into two nonsensical categories: giving up things we enjoy (for example, starting a diet) or doing things we don't enjoy (such as visiting the gym). And we wonder why most resolutions fail. I've done a little bit of research and have found that most advice for keeping resolutions can be boiled down to two simple tips. If we expect our resolutions to work, we need to set specific goals and tell other people what they are. Not simply "get fit" but "do a 40-minute workout twice a week". That kind of thing. And so I've decided on my own unambiguous, timely and public-facing resolution for 2014. I'm giving up mince pies until November.

First published on vivalewes.com 9th January 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com/focussing-on-the-future/