Spring in the air

Spring in the air, there's magic everywhere. So say the lyrics of the remarkably musical and sadly departed Van McCoy. They came to mind this week because we're finally getting some warmish spring weather. It seems to have been preceded by much grumbling, most of which appears to be based on a fundamental misunderstanding of the way our planet's climate works. Mind you, that lack of understanding isn't helped by the Met Office weather app on our resident teenager's mobile phone, which informs him there'll be cloud from 9am until noon, at which point the sun will come out for three hours - as though it's waiting with a stopwatch before donning its hat.

Anyway, I have seen the first true sign of spring. No, it's not the lambs in the fields around Ringmer. In fact this initial sign is to be found in Lewes, although it's neither the goods at the Farmers' Market nor the appearance of swallows. You'll find it alongside the Tesco supermarket... but I'm not talking about the may blossom, despite my lovely wife pointing to the hawthorn and telling me it's safe to remove my vest. (I still reckon the rhyme about casting clouts refers to the month, not the tree). No, the earliest sign of spring is the sight of stage 1 picnicking.

Yes, stage 1 picnicking. You see, I believe there are three formal levels of picnic, which - in homage to WarGames, a sci-fi film from my formative teenage years - I shall describe in terms of PicCon: Picnic Readiness Condition.

PicCon 3: the full picnic. Only for warm, sunny days. There'll be home-made food packed in a wicker hamper. Expect pies made with industrial-strength pastry, usually served with milky tea, strong black coffee or orange squash that tastes of its plastic bottle. On special occasions some may prefer to substitute warm Chardonnay for the squash, although they'll need to open the wine with the handle of a teaspoon unless they remembered to pack a corkscrew.

PicCon 2: a self-assembled but supermarket-bought picnic, often prepared when the weather forecast has been uncertain. Scotch eggs, quiche, a tub of cherry tomatoes and maybe even a layered salad with a tiny plastic fork clipped semi-permanently inside the lid. This is frequently purchased in advance of festivals or trips to the seaside/countryside. You may wish to add a can of ready-mixed gin & tonic for instant luxury.

But before all this comes PicCon 1: the instant picnic, consumed at the first glimpse of sunshine regardless of the outside temperature. This is barely a picnic at all but is simply ready-prepared food eaten outside. A sandwich in a triangular cardboard packet shared on a bench by the river. Two muffins and a can of energy drink. A pot of yoghurt with an iced doughnut. That's not much of a picnic, I hear you say. Very true. But it's not much of a spring so far, either.

First published on vivalewes.com 25th April 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

An Easter story

"I got our mat from bin queue", says my mother-in-law. Good lord. I know it's grim up north but I'd not imagined my wife's parents were rummaging in the rubbish to furnish their home. Worse still, they weren't even at the front of the line. It's only after a few more minutes of conversation that the penny drops. B&Q. Not bin queue. Fortunately I'd not said anything, although my eyes had widened to a Marty Feldman-like look of surprise. I hope they'll interpret this as an indication of my love for DIY.

Yes, the in-laws are down from t'north for Easter. This, contrary to any comedy stereotypes, is actually rather pleasant for all of us. My wife is obviously pleased to see them. We've stocked up on hot cross buns, which our resident teenager is enjoying on what appears to be an hourly basis. The cats are inadvertently given the run of the house. And I've gained valuable 'husband points' by tidying the place before they arrived.

At this stage, I probably need to point out that I'm not built like a rugby player. I'm built more like a marathon runner, albeit one who doesn't actually run marathons because he prefers being indoors with a nice cup of tea.

This is relevant because the main part of my tidying was putting a large box in the loft. The box had been sitting on the landing below the loft hatch for a while, mainly because it appeared to be larger than the opening. However, when the house was deserted, I thought I'd have a go. It's a bit like the philosophical question of whether or not a falling tree makes a sound if no-one hears it. If no-one sees me making a fool of myself, I can't possibly be embarrassed.

Having placed a step-ladder below the hatch, I tried to climb the ladder whilst pushing the box from below. Unstable. I almost end up inside the box. I then half-climb the steps and attempt to lift the box. No, there's definitely not room for my head and the box to pass through the loft opening. For a moment I'm stuck until the fear of being found here helps me wriggle loose. Eventually I nurse the box up the steps and into the loft, contorting myself to prevent either of us from slipping back through the hatch.

So all's well. In fact, there's only one downside to the in-laws staying. My lovely wife and I have offered them our bedroom, which means we're sleeping on a sofa-bed downstairs. It's perfectly comfortable - unless you've twisted your back doing something daft in the loft. I wake up as though set in stone like a victim of Pompeii. "He's been doing some work round the house" explains my wife at breakfast time. Everyone nods knowingly. I look for a hot cross bun to ease the pain but they all seem to have disappeared.

First published on vivalewes.com 12th April 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

Garden centred

I head over the border into West Sussex to see mum, who treats me to lunch at a garden centre. I’m served a perfectly acceptable snack that comprises an Italian-style sandwich with Italian-style ingredients on Italian-style bread, finished off with an Italian-style coffee. To continue the continental theme there's even an advertisement for 'Italian grown plants' on the table. Apparently these plants spend their childhood in Tuscany, which means they're well suited to the south of England. I gaze through the double-glazed window at the nose-to-tail traffic outside. It starts to rain. The concept of homesick shrubs begins to trouble me, so I distract myself by looking inside the garden centre instead.

When I was younger, places were always what they claimed to be. Garden centres sold grass. Supermarkets sold food. Airports were where you caught a plane. Not any more. Everywhere is a 'destination'. Take this freshly-expanded garden centre, for example. There's a pizza oven in the restaurant. There's a conference room to hire; ideal for the kind of business meeting that needs to be held in a plant-themed retail environment. There's free Wi-Fi. Gifts. Kitchenware. Stationery. Shortbread biscuits in enamel tins. A chaise longue, for heaven’s sake.

Meanwhile, supermarkets now sell televisions, airports play host to celebrity restaurants and almost every petrol station has a coffee machine. Mind you, occasionally the coffee tastes as though it’s kept in the same storage tanks as the fuel.

Arriving back home, I find our resident teenager suffering from ennui. "Ringmer is boring", he tells me, before adding "there's nothing to do". Rather than draw attention to the unnecessary duplication in his weary claim, I'm prepared to admit he has a point. It's not that Ringmer really is boring. Definitely not. But our little village can sometimes appear a bit on the quiet side.

I reckon I have the perfect solution. All we need to do is put a roof on the entire place and call it a multimedia experience. Our church is smarter than the average airport chapel, our garden centre actually grows plants and our pubs are livelier than any tacky themed bar. Come to Ringmer retail park: where everything makes sense.

First published on vivalewes.com 21st March 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

Better than Barcelona

I've just returned from four busy days working in Barcelona. (No, I'm not expecting sympathy. There are very few UK jobs that wouldn't be enhanced if they were transposed to the Spanish coast, although being an umbrella salesperson might be more of a challenge). For the last few years Catalonia's main city has hosted Mobile World Congress, an event that sees thousands upon thousands of phone manufacturers, network operators and software developers dragging their wheeled suitcases along cobbled pavements. If there's a single sound that says 'business trip', it's the noise of a wheeled suitcase being dragged by a man in a suit. Anyway, I was there... and unlike many of my fellow travellers, I was struggling with a heavy bag slung casually over my shoulder in order to blend in with the locals. I'd also chosen to wear a bright orange jacket in a bid to look 'European'. Well, I'd heard numerous tales of conference visitors being targeted by pickpockets.

I learned three things from this trip. Firstly, my shoulders are not especially rugged. It's clear that my mother held me by the shoulder, rather than by the traditional heel, when giving me my childhood dip in the River Styx. Next time my suitcase won't just have wheels, I'll make sure there's an outboard motor as well. Secondly, an orange jacket is as much a fashion statement in Spain as it is in the UK - which is another way of saying I stuck out like a sore carrot. On a positive note, dressing as a fluorescent hunchback is apparently off-putting to street criminals.

But perhaps most importantly, I learned that Barcelona is very similar to Ringmer. Except Ringmer is better. Let's begin with the Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's stunning eighteen-spired church. It was started back in the 19th century and still gives the impression of being a work in progress. Ringmer's church may be a little smaller but it's definitely finished. Next, there's Iberian ham. This is traditionally prepared on a jamonera, which looks like the offspring of a breadboard and a medieval punishment, and is usually carved with the unfortunate pig's trotter still attached. Our local butcher wouldn't dream of selling meat without lopping the foot off first. On the subject of food, visit many restaurants in Barcelona and they'll serve you tapas. Visit Ringmer and you'll be offered full-size meals. That's three-nil to us already. Talking of soccer scores, Barcelona has a football club based at the inappropriately-named Camp Nou: the ‘new field’. Inappropriate because it's now over 50 years old. Ringmer's football team play at the Caburn Ground, a fitting name as it’s been overlooked by Mount Caburn since the Cretaceous Period around 100 million years ago.

Finally, there's language. Barcelona is proudly Catalonian, so you'll hear both Spanish and Catalan spoken in the city. Yet Ringmer is a one-language village, making life much easier. Sure, you may hear the occasional villager telling you he wunt be druv but you don't need to juggle two phrasebooks when you visit us. Maybe I ought to have a word with Ringmer's parish council. I reckon we should put in a bid to host 70,000 mobile phone specialists. My shoulder would certainly appreciate it.

First published on vivalewes.com 7th March 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

The galloping gourmet

Horse meat again. Don't know where, don't know when. But I know we've not seen the last of the equine puns. With dodgy processed food still in the headlines - it's been the mane news, you might say - we'll be hearing these jokes furlong time. We're saddled with them.

However, the curious incident of the horse in the lasagne isn't an unbridled disaster. It's made many of us aware of the vast amount of food miles in a processed meal... and it's encouraged people to visit their nearest butcher rather than a supermarket. Here in Ringmer, we have an outstandingly good one. He's definitely able to assure you of the provenance of his produce - yet too much information can sometimes seem uncomfortably personal. I'm reminded of a holiday during which the local butcher recommended the lamb because "you can taste the heather from the hills here". That's only one step away from meeting its parents and seeing photos of it as a baby.

In case you're wondering, I've been a vegetarian but at the moment I'm a carnivore. My return to flesh-eating started innocuously enough: I wouldn't buy meat although I'd eat it if invited to dinner at someone else's house. Seemed rude not to. But before I knew it, I'd begun feeling sorry for left-over food. A couple of reduced-price kidneys at the end of the day?   I tracked down a recipe and dined on devilled kidneys for just 50p. Three miserable looking sardines?   Grilled with a green salad (and gutted with guidance from Delia, who helped me discover that the fishiest smell in the world could be found inside a fish. A bargain nonetheless). I had become a kind-of culinary St Francis, saving the least loved creatures for my plate.

Today, I've put my 'sad food' phase behind me. But it's left me thinking about a solution to the crisis that's hit our meat industry. First of all, if you're worried about what you're eating, simply buy something recognisable. Rabbit looks a lot like rabbit. A pork chop will contain 100% pork. You're unlikely to mistake a chicken for too much else. Oxtail is disconcertingly tail-like. Retailers need to start promoting animal-shaped meals.

And if that doesn't increase sales, I have a second plan. I suggest giving every animal a name that engenders sympathy - maybe Brunhilde for cows, Enid for chickens - and labelling its products with a photograph of the creature looking particularly depressed. I reckon that would work well... at least until someone asked "why the long face?"

First published on vivalewes.com 21st February 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

When the cat’s away…

My mother's been counting birds, she tells me. There was an RSPB survey the other week that involved her tallying the number of visitors seen in an hour. Rather like Neighbourhood Watch but without hiding behind a curtain. Perhaps that’s why some people call it ‘twitching’. Anyway, she ended up monitoring the garden for two hours and then struggled to decide which hour to submit. One had more variety - woodpecker, blackcap, assorted finches - but the other was a larger total. Eventually it was quantity that won, disproving the idea that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

I mention this because until recently I'd not seen many birds in our Ringmer garden. Sure, we have jackdaws on our chimney pot and seagulls circling overhead. I've even spotted a heron on the village pond. But feathery visitors have been few and far between, mainly because of our two cats.

When I say "our" I don't mean mine. I have no cats. In fact, I've heard suggestions that no-one really owns cats; it's cats that own people. Semantics aside, the cats were already living with my wife when we first met, so they're definitely not mine. (Except when they need feeding or a trip to the vet, of course). Anyway, I reckon they’re slowing down. It's the weather, I'm sure. Outside is cold, indoors is warm... and because I spend much of my time working from home, the cats now spend much of their time in the lounge. The sofa is rarely cat-free except when I plug the sofa-cleaning attachment into the vacuum cleaner. But there is an upside. These days I'm noticing more bird life in our garden. Whilst our neighbours have spent many years encouraging feathered friends onto a gazebo that's guarded by a small terrier, we've been more worried than joyful whenever a robin lands.

However, in the last week or so there’s been considerably less cat activity in the garden and more cat inactivity indoors. I’ve even taken to regularly gazing out of the window to watch an occasional blackbird hop across the lawn. Such joy.

At least, there was joy until an unfortunate incident the other day. A thrush landed on the garden path. I looked around; both cats asleep. Lovely. All’s well with the world. The thrush hops down the path, showing off its speckled waistcoat without a care. And then it spots a slug. It stabs the poor slug with its beak and pounds it against the ground again and again. I can’t bear this. Surely it’s time to send the cats out.

First published on vivalewes.com 8th February 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

The snow man

Ask when a boy becomes a man and you're likely to receive a variety of answers that involve driving, voting, responsibility and drinking beer. We've identified a new indicator in our household... and it's come from the heavens. Cold weather had been predicted all week, so it was no surprise when the snow finally arrived last Friday. Our resident teenager provided regular forecasts from the internet as soon as he was home from college, then swaddled himself in scarves on Saturday and cheerfully walked through the snow to his part-time job. By Sunday night he was much less happy. "I'm bored with the snow", he moaned. "There's nothing to do". And so adulthood begins. On a personal note, it's the cold rather than the boredom that troubles me. My fingers turn blue, my face goes white and I need to stamp my feet to improve the circulation as I walk, which means I look rather like a tap-dancing zombie on ice.

I'm doing my best to stay warm, of course. I've heard you can lose 45% of your body heat through your head so I located my knitted bobble hat and wore it as I wandered up to the shops. Not only did I discover the 45% figure is an urban myth, I also learned you can lose 90% of your credibility through your hat. After a while I stopped answering people who either told me they'd found Wally or asked me where Big Ears was.

However, the snow reminded me about two major benefits of living in Ringmer. Firstly, our local butcher has a stockpile of frozen rabbits. Mind you, I imagine there isn't much extra freezing needed if they're caught at this time of year. Yes, I'll get by without my rabbit pie... but that's not necessary in these parts.

Then there are the grit lorries. Although no-one's ever discovered how a gritter driver gets to work in the snow, they always seem to manage. We’re lucky enough to have a colony of gritters (or is it a pride?) nestled in the centre of Ringmer. These magnificent beasts hide during daylight hours and only emerge at night to mark their territory with a glistening salty trail. "The gritters were out again today", announces the teenager with a level of enthusiasm usually only heard when David Attenborough is talking about gorillas. "Do the drivers take them home? That looks like a good job."

Perhaps snow isn't so boring after all.

First published on vivalewes.com 24th January 2013: http://vivalewes.com/