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

The Write Stuff

The fax machine buzzes in the corner of my office, producing a curled sheet of warm paper. I tear the page off but it rips unevenly, inadvertently leaving a tiny triangle of paper on the serrated edge. This happens every time, no matter how hard I try. "Print isn't dead", the message reads. "That's the theme for June." It's a compelling picture – assuming you were paying attention at school when your teacher told you what a fax machine was, probably in the same history lesson that included the trebuchet and the sackbut – but sadly it's not true. This is fake news. My editor's message actually arrived as an email on my mobile phone.

Here’s where I make another confession. I like using technology, often to the detriment of paper-based communications. I’m more likely to email a photo than a write a postcard. I’m more likely to look at the BBC website than buy a newspaper. And I’m more likely to send a text message than tuck a little note into a carrier pigeon’s sock. Sure, technology itself can be transient – in the 1970s a landline phone was the height of sophistication; these days the only call I’m likely to receive on one is either from a hostage negotiator or my mother – but it’s not done the printed word many favours.

And I have to admit that the phrase “print isn’t dead” is uncomfortable for me in another way. In my mind, mortality is very much implied. Print’s not dead. I’m not dead. And yet… if we wait long enough, eh? Mind you, if we're talking about the relative longevity of things, I reckon both print and myself are a long way behind Rupert the cat. A few weeks ago he was seen by a vet whose Australian accent had an appropriately matter-of-fact quality for delivering unwelcome news without drama. "His heart sounds dreadful." It reduced the emotional content of the diagnosis to the level of a conversation about car servicing. Rupert was unconcerned, either because the vet had offered him a chicken-flavoured biscuit or because he only understood 'miaow'. Still, all the other parts of Rupert are in reasonably good shape, so we’ve not cancelled this month’s seventeenth birthday party.

And if worrying about cats wasn’t enough, we’re due to be moving house by the end of June. We’re staying in Ringmer, of course, due to the contractual obligations imposed by writing this column. It’s a little like the prison in classic Schwarzenegger sci-fi movie The Running Man, although I’m reasonably confident that my head won’t explode if I leave. In fact, my biggest worry is getting the post redirected. I wouldn’t want to miss any of my magazine subscriptions. Or my fan mail, obviously. Yes, fake news again.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 129 June 2017

Close to the Borderline

I'm no John Simpson, sadly. I cannot claim much expertise on world affairs. Just as regrettably, I'm no Rageh Omaar, the journalist who became known as the 'scud stud' when the Iraq War started in 2003. It's a shame because I reckon an alliterative upbeat nickname - perhaps 'the Ringmer reporting Romeo' - would suit me. But, as so often happens, I'm digressing.

The last few weeks have seen an assortment of potentially world-changing events passing into history. The UK triggered Article 50 of the Treaty on European Union, marking a countdown to leaving the EU. Michael Howard suggested that our country could go to war with Spain. And the USA launched an attack against Syria, prompting a critical Russian response. (At the time of writing, nuclear conflict with North Korea is pending.) To top it all, my editor emailed me to say that this month's magazine would have an overall theme of 'going out'. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed a good idea for us Ringmerites to take this advice literally. It was time for Ringmer to go out, to declare independence from Lewes District, from East Sussex and from England. We could isolate ourselves from world events and enjoy a bucolic existence, erecting hay-bale barricades on the B2192 and issuing our own hand-knitted passports. But would this be a good idea - or would we be opening ourselves up to the risk of attack?

Yes, seriously. Our location and our natural resources would almost certainly make us an economic threat to those living down the hill in Lewes. Tired of drinking café cortado and eating sour-dough sandwiches, Lewesians might want to raid Ringmer's allotments for fresh fruit and vegetables. When Harvey's best bitter became too familiar, the Lewes warriors would be heading for Turners brewery. Our prized local landmarks, such as the sewage works, would become military targets. And we've got an undefended pond, too.

We villagers would be ready, naturally. The first wave of attackers would be repelled by frenzied geese from the Raystede sanctuary, where our fighting force would have been readied with a special sugary diet of stale doughnuts. Next, the gin-drinkers of Ringmer would use their collection of hedgerow-harvested sloes to pelt the incoming army. Pity the poor soldier that inadvertently swallowed one. And if any pecked, bruised, dry-mouthed fighters remained, we'd switch the Glyndebourne wind turbine into reverse and blow them back down the road.

Of course, all this conflict could be avoided with negotiations and some friendly cross-border arrangements. Instead of a battle, we should celebrate our heritage by having a traditional grumble and then hosting a celebratory street party that would match the joy of VE-Day. Come on, Lewes – you can provide the beer and the organic salad. And we'll promise not to invade.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 128 May 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