Time and motion

Whenever people from outside the local area ask me where I live, I usually tell them Ringmer is a village around three miles from Lewes. That’s not strictly true. If I was talking to a flying crow, they’d evaluate the journey at closer to two miles. Anyone looking at parish boundaries might view us as neighbours. It’s all a matter of perception. My uncertainty about distances was prompted by a visit from friends who are based in London. They don’t measure distances, they measure time. For them, it’s fifteen minutes between the office and their home. The mysteries of underground travel render straight-line measurements useless. They even suggested meeting in Uckfield because it was ten minutes closer. It’s not ten minutes if you’re cycling.

When watching TV shows made in the United States, I’ve noticed that city-dwellers quantify their journeys in ‘blocks’. That seems to be around a hundred yards, although building sizes will vary – which makes it about as much use as the ‘country mile’ my grandmother sometimes referred to. In fact, if any American visitors are reading this, I reckon there are twenty blocks to a country mile. I hope that helps.

Down in Eastbourne, a professor from the University of Brighton devised a series of ‘fitness walks’ that gave an idea of how much energy could be used by walking a few miles. I think something similar should be introduced for Lewes. You could plan a route between coffee shops that would result in the entire journey being calorie-neutral. Rather than saying “I’ll be there in thirty minutes”, you’d be measuring your journey as a skinny cappuccino and a digestive biscuit. A chocolate caramel from Laporte’s would probably get me all the way back to Ringmer. Of course, a precise calculation also depends on the person’s weight and the enthusiasm of their walking… which means it’s still a little vague.

As a child, I was – quite rightly – mystified by the trust some people put in egg timers. We use a ‘football pitch’ to describe large areas and we measure height in double-decker buses, despite neither being fixed. And when my brother went shopping for a new car, he assessed the size of the boot by checking how many golf bags it could hold. It all reminds me of the response offered by an engineer I once worked with. When we went for lunch, customers would sometimes ask how much time we’d be away. “An hour or more, whichever’s longer”, replied Len.

So I’m going to revise my description of Ringmer. I reckon I should describe it in terms that are more poetic, as befits its rural location. As well as measuring distance in country miles, my grandmother would also measure a brief moment of time as “two shakes of a lamb’s tale”. Obviously that’s just a fraction of a second – but given my average walking speed, particularly when offered cake as an incentive, I think Ringmer is around 10,000 lamb-tail shakes from Lewes. That’s pretty clear, isn’t it?

First published on Viva Lewes 5th June 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com/

Thinking out loud

When I was in my early 20s, I went on a 'better driving' course. Today you can claim something similar by whizzing past a speed camera at 37mph but I volunteered for this one. Six one-hour theory sessions with a police officer and an overhead projector, then a high-speed Sunday morning trip up the A23 in a squad car. I was most impressed. Until that point I'd never been in a vehicle with a leather interior.

Our instructor gave us a particularly useful tip from his own training. He'd been encouraged to commentate on his journey in order to increase his awareness. "There's a child on a bicycle ahead. They seem unsteady. The van at the junction may pull out." Not only can this technique improve your driving, it also offers an all-too-rare opportunity to impersonate Murray Walker. Just make sure the windows are closed.

I mention this commentary process because my mother's started doing it. Unfortunately, it's not when she's driving. We're sitting in a coffee shop when a couple of young mothers arrive at the table next to us. They park their pushchairs alongside. "Why does she need something enormous like that?", mum asks the room. "It's like a four-by-four." Unlike an episode of Miranda, no-one laughs. Admittedly the pushchair is relatively rugged-looking but that's probably because it's been designed not to sever fingertips or collapse spontaneously, neither of which were guaranteed by the prams of my youth.

On stage, the soliloquy is a perfectly acceptable dramatic device. In real life, it isn't. The novelty of innocent children describing their bowel movements wears off pretty quickly. I'll happily listen to TV programmes with Sir David Attenborough or David Bellamy explaining their steps through the undergrowth. I really don't want the same level of detail when I'm settling down to a skinny latte and a toasted bagel. Worse still, it might encourage other people to start doing the same thing. It would be like becoming telepathic but without any of the secrecy. Like a truth serum that everyone takes.

Let's face it, there are things that are best left unsaid. So if you hear me ranting in Tesco about the state of the world, please stop me unless I'm actually talking to a real person or wearing a mobile phone headset. And as for my writing... well, that's just between the two of us, isn't it?

First published on Viva Lewes 23rd May 2014: www.vivalewes.com

The village idiom

Are you a gentleman? That was the question posed by Country Life magazine last month. It also offered a series of commandments, ruling that a 'gentleman' is always on time, is happy with 'unfussy fare' such as an omelette, never forgets his wristwatch and doesn't own a cat. I'm not sure why anyone - ladies or gentlemen - would respond to an etiquette proclamation from a publication that declares itself 'the home of premium property' but plenty of people seem to have taken this relatively seriously. I didn't. I'm much more inclined towards the manifesto published by The Chap magazine, which includes "thou shalt always doff one's hat". Arguably it should be "thy hat" but I'll keep quiet because gentlemen don't split hairs.

Anyway, it's got me thinking about definitions: more specifically, the definition of a village. I often talk about Ringmer being a village - but where's my proof? I switch on my computer for clues. 'A village is larger than a hamlet but smaller than a town' says the internet. To help with this definition, it explains that a hamlet is smaller than a village. I've seen other suggestions that a village has a church but not a market: this sounds plausible but I can't find any convincing evidence.

So, in the absence of any firm rules, it's time for me to create some. Here's how you can tell whether or not you're living in a village.

1. In the centre of your community is a large grassy area with public access. You don't need to call it the 'village green', although this helps. Ideally a major road should run alongside it, making open-topped sports cars a valid target during cricket games.

2. The entire area smells of silage and/or manure for at least one day a year. Visitors who complain about the odour should simply be told "it's a country smell".

3. At least one resident parks a tractor outside their house on a regular basis. If a tractor isn't available, a pick-up truck with a sheep in the back is a suitable alternative.

4. You have a village hall. For comedy effect, it's preferable for the building to be uncomfortably small and dilapidated or brand-new and inappropriately large.

5. The number of pubs and the size of the local church give the impression that the village was once packed with hard-drinking worshippers.

6. One local person has a nickname that no-one knows the origin of.

7. A retired rock star or model lives within a 5-mile radius... and a friend of a friend once saw them buying cigarettes at the newsagents.

8. Award-winning food is available from at least one local shop. You secretly hope that Rick Stein will visit it for a new series of 'Food Heroes'.

9. Anyone who lives in a post-1960 house is taunted with talk of 'the old village' and how it's changed since the new development was built.

10. Whenever anyone from outside the village asks your address, you start by telling them the name of the nearest town instead.

Yes, according to my new definition, Ringmer is definitely a village. Oh, and if you happen to see Rick, please point him in our direction. Tell him we're a couple of miles up the road from Lewes. He just needs to follow his nose.

First published on Viva Lewes 8th May 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com/

A sluggish reaction

When it comes to unwanted visitors, my mother is one of the 22 percent. She's part of a sizeable group of people with a zero-tolerance approach to trespass. I don't agree with her perspective, even though I know she intends no harm. She simply wants to protect what she has from those that seek to destroy it. And if they venture too close to her... well, she'll throw them over the fence.

Yes, mum's a snail chucker. According to a recent Royal Horticultural Society survey, 22% of people questioned had thrown snails out of their gardens. In mum's case, they're not piling up in the neighbour's pond or landing on their conservatory roof but are arriving on some wasteland at the edge of the South Downs. This is a compromise I'm prepared to accept. Murderous slug pellets are not for her, nor the extraordinarily cruel salt cellar. As a result, I reckon her lettuce can still be described as ethically sound. Assuming, of course, you can find any lettuce that hasn’t been nibbled off at the root.

Here in Ringmer, I'm resigned to the presence of snails. In fact, I'm rather fond of them. Apparently they're keen on our shady flower beds. Because of this, delicate plants are kept in pots. Robust, foul-tasting shrubs are planted in our garden. Going outside on a damp evening requires either a torch or walking on tiptoes. When it's dark, I totter down the path like an untutored ballerina.

Unlike me, mum's not entirely happy with her snail situation. She's convinced that some of her expelled visitors are returning, albeit a little more tatty around the edges than when they left. I think she's probably right. A few years ago, an amateur researcher discovered that snails have a strong homing instinct. If moved thirty feet from their home, they could easily find their way back. Some could manage 100 yards without too much of a problem. Well, unless they were in a hurry.

I can see two solutions for mum. One involves treating those garden snails as the French might, served in garlic butter and accompanied by some of the salad they favour. Unpalatable in every sense, as far as I’m concerned. The other solution would require a catapult, which doesn’t seem a great deal better. Actually, I suppose there's a third option. Perhaps I should open a snail sanctuary.

First published on Viva Lewes 24th April 2014: www.vivalewes.com

 

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