At home with a gnome

I cross the border into West Sussex to see my mother. When I arrive she calls me into her bird hide - sorry, conservatory - to show me something. "Look over there, by the pond."

The pond, by the way, is the result of me and my brother visiting a fair when we were youngsters. Both of us won goldfish in plastic bags, which led to dad constructing a pond. I can only assume there was a glut of goldfish that year because I've subsequently never demonstrated the same level of success at any fairground stall. Anyway, around 20 relatives of those fish now live in the garden with their own fountain and the occasional frog. Well, not so much 'relatives' as 'replacements'. The original prize fish didn't last long. Perhaps they missed the travelling life.

But today it's neither aquatic nor avian visitors I'm looking at. It's a small concrete creature with pointed ears and a mischievous grin. This new arrival is wearing some kind of smock and appears to have no trousers. Perhaps those wrinkles on its legs are supposed to be tights. I don't want to look too closely. Mother has bought a gnome.

"It's my garden pixie", says mum. No, it's not. It's a gnome. My heart sinks. You hear about this kind of thing happening to other people but you never think it'll strike your own family. I suppose I should have seen the signs. Once, mum just went to garden centres to buy plants. But that wasn't enough. Soon it was lawn food, fish food, bird food... and lunch. Before long she was taking a shortcut straight to the café. It was only a matter of time before the gnomes got her.

That same afternoon she switches on the television to catch up with news from Chelsea Flower Show. There, amongst the medal-winning gardens, are hand-decorated gnomes. Shocking, I know. It's unexpected because the Royal Horticultural Society had previously banned gnomes from its displays. Apparently they've been allowed in for the 100th anniversary of the event and are being auctioned for charity. Naturally, the RHS doesn't use a specific word like 'gnome'. The garden ornaments they prohibit are described officially as "brightly coloured mythical creatures". Hang on. That means mum's stone-coloured chap really isn't a gnome after all. Perhaps there's still hope for her. Unless she decides to paint his legs, of course.

First published on vivalewes.com 30th May 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/

On the internet, no-one knows you’re a village

There's a well-known cartoon from New Yorker magazine. A dog is sitting on a chair using a computer, whilst another dog sits nearby. "On the Internet, nobody knows you're a dog", explains the canine on the chair.

Two things strike me here. The first - and this is particularly shocking - is that the cartoon is around twenty years old, which is prehistoric as far as the world wide web is concerned. Come to think of it, when was the last time anyone actually said ‘world wide web’?   However, I'm also struck by how the internet has changed in those two decades. What was once almost anonymous has become very personal. Today millions of us are tweeting using our real names, telling Facebook everything we do and uploading photographs of every meal we eat.

Curious about what was happening locally, I turned to Twitter. (In the unlikely event you're not familiar with this, it's a web service that lets you send short messages. These can be sent directly to friends or can be posted online for everyone to see). Searching for "Ringmer" revealed a few unforeseen trends. Firstly, we're a surprisingly cat-friendly village. Not only do we have a cat-sitter, we're also worried about missing cats. No mention of dogs, though.

I can tell you that local residents are giving away a couple of tatty suitcases, a china pot holder, some bean bag filling (isn't that simply 'beans'?), a breadmaker and rubble. Before you laugh, let me emphasise the phrase “giving away”.

We're all pretty fit… and not just because we're out looking for cats. It seems Ringmer is keen on football, cricket, motorcross and zumba. One other leisure interest that's on offer locally - so Twitter tells me - is pole fitness. Despite the previous association with burlesque dancing, it's gone mainstream in more recent years. You could even have seen it demonstrated during a 'pamper evening' at the primary school last week. I definitely wasn't expecting that.

Yet all this activity doesn't capture the true spirit or the relatively small size of Ringmer. It’s easy to get carried away when you’re tweeting, as several high-profile people have discovered to their cost. Unlike the cartoon creatures, we shouldn't pretend to be something we're not. In fact, that’s at the heart of my favourite recent Ringmer tweet. "You act like your a gangsta but you live in ringmer". I might have that turned into a t-shirt.

First published on vivalewes.com 16th May 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/on-the-internet-no-one-knows-youre-a-village/

Words don’t come easy

For the past few weeks I've seen a road sign as I entered Lewes along the Phoenix Causeway. "Speed restriction work", it warned. "Delays for two weeks". It was referring to the new 20mph speed limit that's designed to reduce accidents and injuries in the town centre. My complaint isn't about the new lower limit - I'm sure most right-minded people would encourage drivers to collide with pedestrians at slower speeds - but about the wording of the sign. Any delays caused by the painting of new road markings have now been replaced by a permanently reduced limit. I shouted at the sign every time I went past. "It's not just for a fortnight. It's forever. Delays forever".

Language changes all the time, I know. That's perfectly natural. This isn't about split infinitives and greengrocers' apostrophes or about the difference between less and fewer. I only get seriously annoyed when things are unclear, misleading or plain stupid. For example, shopping at Waitrose presents a new etymological challenge. After loading my groceries into my fashionably reusable shopping bag I pay by credit card. When I've finished, the delightful young cashier ruins the experience by saying "If you could remove your card from the machine". That's a conditional sentence without any consequence. In my head I'm screaming "If... then. If... then. Then what?"

But an illogical frustration that tops both of these annoyances is much closer to home. In fact, it's outside the convenience shop here in Ringmer. We have a cash machine that vends £5 notes. This is a smart idea but unfortunately the machine isn't smart in any other sense. I insert my card and enter my PIN code. I'm offered a choice between "Withdraw cash and check balance" or "Cash only". Just cash, I decide. "Do you want to check your balance?" asks the machine. I curse silently as I press the "No" key. No, if I'd wanted to check my balance I would have chosen that option. "Would you like a receipt?" asks the machine. I would. "Sorry", says the machine, "Receipts are not available". I’ve stopped thinking of it as a cash machine. It’s more like a mechanical village idiot.

First published on vivalewes.com 3rd May 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/words-dont-come-easy/

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/