Don't look back in manger

I’m dreaming of a traditional Ringmer Christmas. A turkey from butcher Lew Howard, a swift half in the pub after the carol service and a trip to the convenience shop for a pint of milk on 25th December. However, this year there’ll be a few additions. I’m planning to acquire a copy of Pears’ Cyclopaedia, a long-established pre-internet tome that may need to replace our local library if the county council’s proposed closure goes ahead. And there’s a family get-together planned, so our two-year-old grandson will be playing a significant role in the festive celebrations. In fact, there’s a good chance he’ll provide the main entertainment. That’s because every generation of young people learns a useless skill to a high level of expertise. When I was a kid, it started with the yoyo. I’d just about mastered ‘walking the dog’ by the time my contemporaries had moved on to Rubik’s Cube. Next came videogames. I lost interest fairly quickly, mainly because the only game I knew was the monochrome Asteroids machine in the corner of the coffee bar – and that cost 10p a go. Thanks to technology, today’s teens play games that look more like war documentaries, dexterously tapping their fingers to explode three-dimensional Nazi zombies rather than two-dimensional rocks. Our grandson already has his own specialist video-related party piece: he can peel a croissant in 15 seconds without taking his eyes off the latest TV adventures of Peppa Pig. This is a trick I might try to refine for long car journeys.

As well as practising pastry exfoliation, I probably ought to adopt a few more of the latest seasonal trends. According to The Sun, ‘extreme cleavage’ is one of the biggest fashion trends for Christmas 2017. This statement is illustrated with a photo of Amanda Holden’s chest and a reminder of her age, as though the ability to use double-sided tape is somehow remarkable for a 46-year-old. I’m already expecting some extreme cleavage at the dinner table, although ours is going to involve the turkey. Also predicted by style gurus is the return of tinsel. That’s no surprise to me: ours has been returning annually from a black bin bag in the loft since it was bought in Woolworths. In addition, financial experts have been cautioning against over-enthusiastic spending. Good news for all my friends, as it gives me an excuse to return to my childhood recipe for home-made peppermint creams, neatly presented in vol-au-vent cases and tasting more like toothpaste than confectionery.

Most importantly, this kind of back-to-basics Christmas means I have the perfect opportunity to teach my grandson some of the festive songs that meant so much to me as a schoolboy. All together now: "While shepherds washed their socks by night..."

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 135 December 2017

Mark gets militant

It was William Lonsdale Watkinson who coined the phrase 'far better to light the candle than to curse the darkness' in a sermon just over a century ago. Yet in a world that's threatened intermittently with nuclear war, depending on the availability of the US President's internet connection, it's easy to feel helpless against injustice. Of course, we can all prepare for the worst. Action films have told us the best way to react to unspeakable horror is to keep calm and carry on, walking unflinchingly through explosions. And I'm sure I'll find it pretty simple to substitute rat for free-range chicken in my post-apocalyptic cooking.

But all this metaphorical bunker-building feels a bit passive. Whilst it's good to have an excuse to stockpile tinned custard in the cupboard under the stairs, I doubt I'll have any opportunity to defend the village of Ringmer against a real attack. Or, at least, I didn't think I would... until my call-up papers arrived.

Like many people, I'm a little nervous about the delivery of any government document. I'm pretty sure that worming the cat doesn't qualify me for an MBE, which means a letter bearing the House of Commons portcullis is probably trouble. And indeed it is, but not in the way I expect. Local MP Maria Caulfield has written of her disappointment that East Sussex County Council is considering the closure of Ringmer library, along with six other local libraries. Her campaigning puts her in conflict with fellow Conservatives who control the council. Councillors say the planned closures would save money, although the inclusion of Ringmer seems counter-intuitive when the Village Hall building that contains the library has recently been enlarged and visitor numbers have increased. In fact, it was the Chair of ESCC who officially opened the new library last year.

Figures from ESCC mention a journey of 10 minutes from Ringmer Library to Lewes Library by bus, which would be absolutely true if there was a time machine waiting at Lewes Bus Station to save people from walking to the town's library. They also suggest the annual cost of running Ringmer library is around £8,000. That's just a quarter of the amount their councillors claimed in car travel for the last financial year. Sure, people from Ringmer could go into Lewes to use the library. But if that's the case, why stop there? Why not insist that Ringmerites could go into Lewes to use the shops, the schools and the pubs?

Anyone interested can respond to the consultation online at consultation.eastsussex.gov.uk or, if you prefer paper, by picking it up from the library. While you’re there, I’d also recommend borrowing a book. One day, you may even be able to pick up a copy of my favourite rodent recipes. I think I'll call it 'Cooking by Candlelight'.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 134 November 2017

Smells like nicotine spirit

In 1751, William Hogarth created an etching entitled Gin Lane, depicting the negative effects of what’s now known as the ‘gin craze’. I like to think he’d choose electronic cigarettes for his satire if he were around today. Whilst walking into a secondhand vapour cloud that smells of fried Ribena doesn’t involve the same health risks as tobacco smoke, it’s not a pleasant sensation. And I really don’t understand why some ‘vapers’ insist on using what looks like a Blue Peter rendition of Dr Who's sonic screwdriver to produce a cloud that’s large enough to be detected by a weather satellite.

At least pubs are smoke-free these days. And, if ever I needed the perfect excuse to pop out to Ringmer’s pubs for a cheering pint, this month's Viva Lewes theme was surely it. But where should I start? And, even more importantly, where should I finish? "Somewhere near home", recommends Mrs B. Wise words indeed.

I plan my route to begin at The Cock Inn, which can trace its history back to the 16th century. Contrary to my expectations, the owners say it isn't named after a male chicken but after the extra horse that was sometimes required to pull a heavy carriage up a hill. Apparently it's the type of additional horsepower necessary for the nursery rhyme journey to Banbury Cross. Next I'll head to The Anchor, established in 1742, which is described online as 'one of only 2 pubs in the village of Ringmer'. The Anchor's webmaster is clearly seeing double - and that's not enough, according to my figures, because I've yet to reach the Green Man. This, the Good Pub Guide tells me, is a 'welcoming 1930s roadside pub'. However, that's not when the name arrived: history books note the presence of a 'Green Man' in the village much earlier. All this is rather confusing, although I suppose that’s hardly surprising when alcohol is involved.

I decide to share my drink-focused journey plan with Mrs B. She looks disappointed. "You've forgotten the cricket club. And you’ve forgotten the football club, too." Indeed I have. Perhaps I could call at the cricket pavilion before crossing the village green to the Anchor, followed by a short walk round the corner to the football club. Except the cricket club bar is usually only open when there's a match - and the lack of spotlights or a pink ball means that'll be daytime. Come to think of it, I've missed the overlap between the cricket and football seasons for 2017. This has become a scheduling nightmare. I don’t even have the right kind of pet to take advantage of any dog-friendliness. Time instead to drink my troubles away with a cappuccino at Café Ringmer. As I approach, I’m sure I can smell coffee in the air. Or is it the residue of an espresso-flavoured e-cigarette?

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 133 October 2017

Read-only memory

My wife's flicking through photos of Rupert the cat on her phone. One shows him almost seventeen years ago, a tiny saucer-eyed creature with exactly the same symmetrical black-and-white markings as the adult cat I came to know. "I miss my little kitten", she says. I miss him too, although he was never my little kitten. Instead, he chose to adopt me in middle age. (His, obviously. I'm still in denial about mine.) Sadly, Rupert's not been himself for several weeks, which is why we're consoling ourselves by looking through old photos. At the moment he's sitting on the bedroom windowsill, although we only know it's him because his name's written on the label attached to a little wicker wallet. The preceding words on the label are 'In Loving Memory Of'.

Rupert had been forgetting things for a few months. He'd forgotten where his outdoor toilet was. Then he forgot to eat. Eventually he forgot to keep breathing, too. One Friday morning, we woke up but he didn't. We found him lying in his bed with his offside front leg stretched forwards, looking about as relaxed as he ever did. Frozen in the perfect taxidermy of death.

We couldn't bury him under his favourite tree because we were moving house and didn't want to leave him behind. So we had him cremated at Raystede's Peaceways crematorium, where we bid a sad farewell to him in his feline form and retrieved him a few days later in a disconcertingly gritty pocket-sized packet. And we wept, not just for the cat we'd lost but also for the love we weren't able to give him any more, for the extra love he'd never know.

Of course, he's haunting our new home. Bad ghosts haunt with a malevolent presence. They put white sheets over their heads and say "woo". A cat poltergeist might yowl mysteriously from the wardrobe at midnight or nibble their initials into an unwary mouse. Rupert haunts us with his absence. We know the shadow by the window isn't his. There's a cat-sized gap on the sofa between me and Mrs B. The buttery crumpet crumbs remain on our breakfast plates.

We'd expected to lose something when we moved. A picture frame was dropped. A self-assembly cupboard started disassembling itself. We spent a week with only a single cereal bowl between us before the rest of the mismatched set emerged. But we'd not expected to leave some of our happy memories behind.

Fortunately, plenty remain. We have hundreds of Rupert photos, all copied to secure online storage in some Californian bunker. Most importantly, we still have Harry, the backup cat. He's very fond of his new home... and of sitting in the extra space that's now available on the sofa. It almost looks like he's posing for a portrait.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 132 September 2017

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