Kate Middleton and the iPhone 5

I need to finish a piece of work in the next couple of hours. I’m working from home, which means I’m already being disrupted by the ongoing remodelling of our kitchen and the occasional disappearance of mains electricity as part of that process.

Worse still, having no electrical power cuts my internet connection off. Our resident teenager is taking it particularly hard. “It’s like the end of the world”, he says through mouthfuls of sausage roll. Eating is the only offline activity he can think of at the moment.

However, this cloud has a silver lining. Losing my internet connection creates fewer distractions.

Distractions like checking Google for the latest news. It tells me that Kate Middleton and the new iPhone 5 are currently trending. This apparently means they’re both immensely important to many people.

The most obvious difference between the iPhone 5 and Apple’s previous phone is that the updated device has a larger screen. There’s more on display than before, you might say.

The Duchess of Cambridge is in the headlines for a similar reason.

Now, some people have suggested the Duchess shouldn’t have been sunbathing topless in a private garden. They think she should cover herself at all times just in case she’s seen en deshabille by someone who isn’t Prince William. Maybe a thin layer of gold paint would suffice, rather like an Olympic letter box or the unfortunate Jill Masterson in ‘Goldfinger’.

Others say it’s an invasion of privacy, none of our business and is no more in the public interest than hiding a webcam in George Osborne’s bathroom or publishing Hannah Cockroft’s tax return. They say – and I’m in agreement with this group of people – that being famous doesn’t automatically make you a contestant in a ‘reality TV’ competition.

The truth is that neither Kate nor the new iPhone is remotely important in the grand scheme of things. Yes, the bigger issues of security, privacy, technology and communication are worth talking about… but getting excessively excited about a mobile phone and a half-naked woman? Not unless you’re a 14-year-old boy.

If the iPhone 5 offered time-travel, it would be worth discussing at length. If the photos of Kate had revealed the inner workings of a cyborg, newspapers could make a case for publishing them.

But these current reports are only about increasing sales, not about changing the world.

Anyway, that’s why I’m rather pleased the plasterer has switched off the electricity. It means I can get on with my work and not have this kind of trivia on my mind. Which, of course, it isn’t.

Right. Where was I?

First published on vivalewes.com 20th September 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

A science-fiction double-feature

In the past week there have been two significant events in my life. I have lost my kitchen and discovered the new 'Total Recall' film. Curiously, both are connected.

Total Recall, as you may know, began life in 1966 as a short story by Philip K Dick. The original story tailed off into complete fantasy, probably influenced by the author’s preferred medication. A couple of decades ago it became an action-packed science fiction adventure starring Arnold Schwarzenegger - and now it's been remade with Colin Farrell acting out a different plot. Arnie's movie asked whether our hero was confused by an 'artificial memory' he'd chosen as an alternative to a proper holiday. And Colin Farrell's story has many a nod to the earlier film while following a number of new secret-agent story elements. (Yes, chaps, there really is a woman with three chests in the new film - and not in the same sense as Portia in 'The Merchant of Venice').

I rather enjoyed the film once I'd realised it was neither a remake nor a brand new concept. You could say it was 'inspired by' the original version, not unlike the new VW Beetle, a mock-Tudor executive home or a microwave lasagne.

Anyway, one of the reasons we had a family night out at the pictures in Uckfield on Saturday was because our lounge is currently stuffed with the former contents of our old kitchen. We're mid-way through having a new kitchen fitted.

The previous kitchen had seen better days... and many of them, too. It had been given a facelift in the 1990s, which helped to explain the odd combination of brushed chrome and flaky varnish. Fortunately, we're blessed with a decent kitchen designer and supplier in Ringmer.

First, of course, the old kitchen needs to be removed. That's why we have breakfast cereal balanced on the TV in the lounge. That's also why there's a pile of old kitchen units in the back garden, guarded by a couple of puzzled cats who haven't quite worked out where their food has moved to. For several days the kitchen area looked distressingly empty and tatty. Previously-inaccessible cobwebs were revealed. The fitter's pencil marks on the wall gave the impression of a graffiti lesson for infants.

Stage two is now underway as the new kitchen units arrive. But d’you know what? It all seems rather familiar. Yes, it's clean and shiny and 21st-century but... well... you can't help wondering whether you should have just left it alone. Whether a quick wipe round with a damp cloth would have saved all that work. Let's face it, the important stuff is still roughly in the same place.

All of which has me speculating whether Colin Farrell thinks the same about his film.

More importantly, I'm also wondering if that embedded technology from the film will ever make it into real life. Mr Farrell's character had a mobile phone implanted under the skin of his hand. Right now, I'd be very happy with a hotplate.

First published on vivalewes.com 13th September 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

Somewhere beyond the sea

He's back. The quick-witted guy with the shaven head and a talent for fixing problems. A snappy dresser who attracts many women yet rarely notices the effect he has. Someone who frequently irritates his superiors but makes friends nearly everywhere he travels.

Sadly that's not a description of me, although I’ll admit we do have a few traits in common. I'm talking about the ever-impressive Italian detective Inspector Montalbano, who's just started a new series on BBC4.

I reckon the main difference between us is that Montalbano avoids my fondness for inappropriate humour that can ruin any moment. No-one really wants a laughing policeman.

Anyway, Commissario Salvo Montalbano works in the fictional Sicilian town of Vigata; a place that seems to be the perfect holiday destination. And the more I think about it, the more Vigata seems to be rather like Lewes.

Vigata - or perhaps its real-world location Porto Empedocle - is a long-established town with plenty of history, high-quality restaurants and tourists. It's acclaimed for its writers and for a colourful annual parade with a religious theme. You’ll even find a decent firework display.

The two towns could almost be twinned if it wasn’t for the complaints you’d hear across the English Channel from Blois and Waldshut-Tiengen.

Yes, Lewes and Vigata certainly share a great deal of culture and tradition. But one of the things they also share is my label of ‘tourist destination’ rather than ‘potential home’.

I'd love to visit but I really don’t think I want to live there. Aside from the constant trek of sight-seeing visitors past your front door, there's a somewhat disconcertingly heavy police presence, there’s the invariable challenge of trying to fit in with the local community - and all this set against the persistent background of Mafia activity.

I imagine things are much the same in Italy.

Incidentally, my wife finds Montalbano as compelling as I do, although not for all the same reasons. I noticed she wasn't as distressed as I was when Montalbano's swimming trunks fell off in the most recent show. Still, she says I should be reassured that Salvo and I have a similar haircut.

In fact, she’s actively encouraging the similarities. As we finish our arancini and drain a glass of prosecco, my wife poses a question. "Can you speak with an Italian accent?", she asks, seductively.

"Corsican", I reply.

First published on vivalewes.com 6th September 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

Where everybody knows your name

"Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got."

You probably recognise those words from the song that announced every episode of 'Cheers' on TV. It was set in a Chicago bar "where everybody knows your name and they're always glad you came".

Much like my home in Ringmer, I reckon. And not like the neighbouring town of Lewes.

Yes, I’m continuing my campaign to praise the advantages of Ringmer over Lewes.

I'm not saying Lewes is unfriendly. Given the volume of tourists the town sees, most retailers are innately sociable. Customers are greeted with a friendly smile. Even the bus driver is happy to change a £5 note (although trying to pay with Lewes Pounds didn’t go down so well).

But there's something missing. The truly personal touch.

I'm not just talking about the barman at my local pub offering to pull me a pint of Harveys whenever I walk in. That could be a lucky guess... or a shrewd marketing move.

It's the sense of community.

Up here in Ringmer, you feel as though you belong to the place. That doesn’t mean everyone agrees with everyone else – the Village Hall extension appeal is a good example of local discord, as is the rumoured arrival of a pizza franchise – but there’s an atmosphere of us all being in it together. Whatever it is.

Lewes seems a bit too big for that. Pubs, clubs and societies may have loyal memberships but I can’t imagine walking through the town and having the same sense of belonging that tends to happen with a village.

There is, however, a downside to all this familiarity.

My mother was brought up in a little Sussex village that wasn’t much bigger than the bar in ‘Cheers’. All the residents knew each other. And all the residents knew about each other.

One of the villagers had a child. That child was called... actually, I don’t know his real name. You see, as a toddler he had a tendency to take his clothes off and wander outside the garden into the street.

No harm done, you might say. A tight-knit community. Gentler times. All this is true.

However, because of his habit, the child was given a nickname. Let’s say that nickname was ‘Nudie’.

A couple of years ago, mum and I drove through the village where she grew up. We passed a middle-aged man walking uphill.

“Oh look”, she said. “It’s Nudie”.

At least he was fully dressed.

First published on vivalewes.com 30th August 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

Turtle recall

My mother phones from over the border in West Sussex. “I’m taking the tortoise to the vet”, she tells me. “One eye looks a bit cloudy and he can't find his food very well.”

Given that mum’s been treating the old chap to M&S salad, his inability to locate it is particularly worrying.

This, incidentally, is not my tortoise. Technically it’s not even my mother’s tortoise. He’s called Fred and was given to my brother as a childhood pet some decades ago. His equally-aged companion Susie is my tortoise but both are very much in mum’s care. I think it’s her way of guaranteeing I call round every so often. You don’t get the same longevity with a hamster.

“All very interesting”, I hear you saying, “but what does this have to do with your ongoing campaign to prove Ringmer better than Lewes?”

Well, mum’s phone call reminded me of a famous Ringmer citizen.

Take a look at the village sign as you escape from Lewes into Ringmer and you’ll see it features a tortoise. Not just any tortoise. No, that tortoise is Timothy Snooke.

Lewes, I'll grant you, has seen many illustrious residents. But while Lewesians speak reverently of Thomas Paine and Richard Russell, it’s Timothy who made more of a difference... especially when you consider the reptile had neither the power of speech nor the ability to write. Let me explain.

The story begins when naturalist Gilbert White visited his aunt, Rebecca Snooke, in Ringmer during the late 18th century. Mrs Snooke owned a female tortoise called Timothy. (Don’t get distracted by the gender issue; apparently it’s an easy mistake to make if you’re not a tortoise).

The Reverend White – for the naturalist was a curate – wrote about his local environment, including his visits to see Timothy, and later published these records in a book entitled ‘The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne’. It’s a study of British plants and creatures, with much of it focussing on questions of bird migration and hibernation.

Hang on a moment. Hibernation?  Are you thinking what I’m thinking?  I reckon Timothy’s wintertime behaviour influenced Gilbert's ideas. She’s a tortoise that changed the course of scientific research.

But that’s not all. Gilbert White describes her by using prose that transforms his book into a classic of English literature. “It hobbles towards its benefactress with awkward alacrity”, he notes. A lovely turn of phrase.

In fact, Timothy was such an influential figure that Rev White adopted her when his aunt died. The tortoise was taken on an 80-mile carriage ride to live with him in Hampshire – an early example of domestic pets being permitted on public transport.

She’s a hero of naturalism. A literary muse. A pioneering polymath.

Thomas Paine helped found America. Richard Russell placed Brighton on the tourist trail.

But I’d say their achievements pale into insignificance when compared with the impact of Ringmer’s renowned reptilian resident.

After all, neither of those two citizens achieved anything while buried in a garden.

First published on vivalewes.com 2nd August 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

The state of independence

Oh Lewes, how visitors surge along your cobbled streets for a spot of recreational shopping. How those visitors delight at your independent shops. And yet...

And yet those independent shops are under increasing commercial pressures, with more and more 'big name' brands appearing where a sole trader was before. Eventually every other shop will be owned by a coffee chain and the rest will sell some kind of stylish clothing for an active lifestyle. Probably an active lifestyle that involves dropping those clothes off at the dry cleaners because otherwise they'd dissolve in your washing machine.

Here in Ringmer, we don't have those problems. Not at the moment, anyway.

Unlike Lewes, we are still a true haven for independent retailers. In a single parade of shops (equipped with a paved precinct and handy points for securing a dog/bicycle) we can offer you a greengrocer and florist, a bakery, a butcher, a vet, an Indian restaurant, a fish & chip shop, a hairdresser, an off-licence and a pet supplies shop. There's also an estate agent, a bank and a convenience shop with post office but they're all parts of larger organisations so I won't count them for now. That's before you search out the pubs (two or three, depending on where you draw village boundaries), the garage and the units on the trading estates elsewhere in the village.

But the pièce de résistance is Middletons. Or, to use its full name, Middletons of Ringmer. It's a haberdashery.

If you put Mrs Middleton and her wares in a little bay-windowed shop on Lewes High Street, you wouldn't be able to move for squealing tourists taking photos of buttons and ribbons.

Mind you, the shop sells more than just sewing kit. There's also a nice line in greetings cards, some children’s toys and an assortment of advertisements on postcards in the window. Kittens for sale, lawnmower servicing, that kind of thing.

You're going to tell me that Lewes has similar needlecraft shops. I know.

But they don't quite have the charm of our local haberdasher's shop. Or the slight incongruity. Well, it's not like every village really needs one.

If I was thinking of opening a shop, I'd be estimating footfall and looking for an unexploited niche. That's just one of the reasons I'd not make a good independent shopkeeper.

The trick, it seems, is a combination of caring passionately about what you do, trying to meet every customer's desire and not giving a stuff about what anyone else thinks.

And I reckon living in a village gives you an advantage. After all, you've already chosen to stay away from the crowds.

So, as I continue to demonstrate, Lewes is a great place to visit but Ringmer is the right place to live. It demonstrates true independence and has everything you could possibly need.

Well, almost everything. If there's anything else you want, you can always knit it. I know the perfect shop to buy some wool.

First published on vivalewes.com 26th July 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

The visitors who carry a torch for Lewes

Earwig Corner – the number one insect-themed road junction on the A26 – hosted the Olympic Torch Relay on Tuesday this week.

I wandered down from my home in Ringmer and saw the entire cavalcade assemble on the edge of Lewes before it set off in two awkward half-convoys. In the midst of the police motorcycles and sponsored trucks was a lone runner clutching an eBay-ready Olympic torch.

To be honest, I was rather hoping that the assorted bonfire societies of Lewes had planned a guerrilla response in the style of Crocodile Dundee’s much-quoted knife scene. “Call that a torch parade?”, someone would shout as hundreds of paraffin-soaked wooden stakes were raised to the skies. “No, THIS is a torch parade”. A giant papier-mâché effigy of Wenlock the mascot would then be burned on the playing field behind Tesco.

Sadly, that remained a mere fantasy.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not joining the Cynical Olympiad that seems to be accompanying the 2012 games. This column isn't the place for such cynicism. It's the place where I extol the benefits of not living in Lewes while singing the town’s praises.

And Tuesday was the perfect example of Lewesians getting a bit of a raw deal while the rest of the world looked on.

Never mind the road closures. Never mind the transport disruption. Never mind some businesses wondering where on earth all the customers had gone.

No, Tuesday was all about visitors. Through a curious quirk of scheduling there weren’t even any Lewes residents carrying the torch through their home town.

Also notable was the way some of these visitors dressed. Not the torchbearers. The tourists.

It’s a curious thing but we Brits really seem to choose dramatically different clothes when we’re on holiday, even when our destination isn’t that far away and our lifestyle hasn’t changed. Suddenly we’re wearing storm-proof cagoules. Camouflage shorts. Rugged sandals. Sarongs. Just for a trip to the shops.

All were on display as the torch passed through, making the streets of Lewes look rather like a film set. Perhaps ‘Robinson Crusoe in the 25th century.’ Office managers in suits standing next to folk wearing flip-flops. Climbing boots alongside stilettos.

Yet when I come to Lewes, I'm a visitor too. Which prompts a question: is it wrong to turn up in my regular clothes when I visit Lewes?  Would it be better if I identified myself by wearing three-quarter length shorts and eating an ice cream?  Or should all tourists be forced to carry a flaming torch?

Except on 5th November, obviously.

First published on vivalewes.com 19th July 2012: http://vivalewes.com/