Are we there yet?

"Christmas starts earlier every year". That's become a familiar cry from frazzled parents who have used their entire stock of "wait and see", "Santa only brings presents if you're good" and "ask your father/mother/grandparents" tactics well before 25th December. Certainly we're in the middle of a commercial frenzy at the moment, with TV advertisements pulling at your heartstrings like a tinsel-clad Geoff Capes. But is Christmas really starting earlier?

When I was a teenager, I had a Saturday job working in a toy shop. I was in the male-dominated department that dealt with Airfix kits, Hornby railways, model cars and Star Wars figures. I'd demonstrate electric trains by touching a 9-volt battery against their wheels, which I believed made me look like a worthy adversary to Magneto in the X-Men comics. Come and worship, youngsters. Our Christmas season started in November every year, just as soon as my colleagues round the corner had sold their last box of fireworks. That didn't seem too early, particularly as there'd often be a point when desperate customers needed to wait a week or two for the next delivery of ‘Simon’ from MB Games. (Batteries not included). We wouldn't tape tinsel to the cash registers until around four weeks before the big day but there was no doubting the yuletide anticipation.

Some years later I found myself working in a mobile phone shop. At this point I'd worked out that I wasn't much of a sales person but - much like my toy retailing days - rather enjoyed playing with the products. Once again, our Christmas season kicked off at the beginning of November. Mobile phones were relatively new, very exciting and became the must-have festive gift for 1995. We very literally couldn't get enough. Soon, promotion beckoned... or perhaps the regional manager was desperate to get a real salesman running one of his biggest shops. Either way, I ended up in head office where Christmas planning started as summer ended. By the time real Christmas arrived, I'd been looking at prototype cardboard decorations and seasonal puns for the past three months.

So I don't think that Christmas is starting much earlier. I reckon there's always been a holiday build-up for quite a few weeks. It's even happening here in Ringmer, with various events taking place during November and chocolate advent calendars arriving in the convenience shop. But I think what's changed is that every aspect of retailing is now Christmas-related. It's not just the must-have gifts that are being decked with boughs of holly. It's everything. Anything you're buying for yourself is "stocking up for Christmas", according to advertisers. Anything you're buying for someone else is a potential Christmas present. Headache tablets, puncture repair kits and insulating tape are for Christmas emergencies. Even a cup of coffee is now served in a merry old bowl with a slug of eggnog-flavoured syrup lurking at the bottom and a dollop of cream floating on top.

But what can we do?  Well, I think Tesco has the answer. It sells hot cross buns all year round without any sight of a biblical reference or an Easter bunny. We should demand the same of yule logs, cranberry & brie vol-au-vents, figgy puddings and tinned shortbread biscuits. These should be available every day, from January to December. That way we can enjoy a proper Christmas at the proper time of year without all this marketing fuss.

First published on vivalewes.com 28th November 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/category/east-of-earwig/

There’s no place like moan

I've recently been reminded of my last day at middle school when, as a budding 11-year-old documentary maker, I borrowed dad's cassette tape recorder and asked my teacher to speak some words of wisdom that I could remember him by. "Never trouble trouble 'til trouble troubles you", said Mr Kelly. I recall the moment well, even though my documentary-making career never really took off and I can't find the tape any more. When I think about it, those words could almost be the family motto. If mother had a coat of arms mounted on the wall in place of the kitchen clock, that phrase would be neatly lettered in Latin above a golden shield held by two Jack Russells Rampant.

Another essential family expression is 'mustn't grumble'. This one, unlike the former, isn't to be taken literally. On the contrary, it's usually only added after a minor complaint. "That Dirty Biker should never have been allowed on Strictly. Still, mustn't grumble." Yes, mum’s a fan of the BBC's Strictly Come Dancing despite not always knowing who everyone is. It's watched enthusiastically with notes taken for reference later. But I digress. Sometimes a longer story will involve the occasional use of “well, that was alright” (when it clearly wasn’t alright) to build tension until the conclusion is reached. “I couldn’t find a parking space at first but then somebody moved – well, that was alright – and then the dentist was late back from lunch. Still, mustn’t grumble.”

However, my favourite is ‘it won’t kill you’. Admittedly it’s rarely used these days but I’d hear this fairly regularly as a child. Splinters removed with needles, food that was dropped on the floor and then rinsed under the tap, foul-tasting medicine... all were heralded with “don’t fuss, it won’t kill you.” And, d’you know what? Mum was absolutely right. I am living proof that none of those things my mother reassured me about were deadly. Of course, that’s not to say they weren’t deeply unpleasant. Still, mustn’t grumble.

First published on vivalewes.com 14th November 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/theres-no-place-like-moan/

The wait of responsibility

My mother-in-law has a folding walking stick that snaps together like a sniper's rifle. I'm sure she practices assembling it in the dark because the movement is fluid, swift and unerringly accurate. Either that or one of her previous jobs was covered by the Official Secrets Act. Sadly there's little more I can tell you about my in-laws because I enjoy having them around, which rules out the opportunity for too much comic exaggeration.

Yes, I've been on my best behaviour this week. There's been something of a family reunion with my wife's relatives and her children all variously meeting up here in Ringmer. It was a bit of a step-family reunion for me because - as I've mentioned before - my wife was already equipped with children and cats when we met. This meant I didn't need to trouble myself with the unpleasantness of toilet training for any of the aforementioned creatures. It meant I avoided that supposedly heart-warming stage when babies morph from Winston Churchill clones into real human beings. And it meant I've never changed a nappy.

Yet responsibility has been thrust upon me in the past few days. No, it's not the step-children. They have no need for a fake father figure and I have no desire to be called anything other than my given name. It's not the rest of my wife's family; in fact it's not a relation in any sense. We've volunteered for a spot of dog walking while a couple of friends in the village are away. I say 'we' but really mean 'me'. Anyway, I've been strolling around with a little chap who was supplied with an extending lead and a handful of small black bags. It's surprising how much friendlier Ringmer is if you have a dog. Barely a person passes me without a smile or a 'hello'. It could be my four-legged friend that's attracting all the attention but I'm basking in it regardless. We walk through the village engaged in non-stop conversation with each other. Admittedly it's fairly basic stuff - I'm all "who's a good boy?" and he's simply smiling back at me - but it's great fun.

And at some point during our evening constitutional, he'll strike a pose and I'll prepare one of those black bags to clear up his doggy gift. As I walk home with a dog lead in one hand and a disconcertingly warm bag in the other, I feel surprisingly happy. Maybe all this responsibility is good for me. Or perhaps I'm just relieved that dogs don't wear nappies.

First published on vivalewes.com 1st November 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/the-wait-of-responsibility/

Twin piques

A couple of months ago Switzerland was attacked by an invading force from the east of France. Not in reality, you'll be relieved to hear, but as part of a training exercise for the Swiss army. This would be an excellent opportunity for me to joke about the troops removing stones from their horses' hooves with Swiss Army Knives... but I won't. You see, I've just checked my own penknife and it doesn't have that multipurpose fold-out spike. Instead there's a ballpoint pen, a nail file and a pair of scissors alongside the various blades, which suggests it's more of a Swiss Army Administrative Support Tool. Or perhaps it suggests I'm no Ray Mears.

Anyway, these military manoeuvres got me thinking. The wargame imagined that an economic crisis had broken France up, prompting one region to invade in a search for 'stolen money'. But what if the same happened in East Sussex?   What if a mercenary force from Lewes tried to seize the strategic assets of Ringmer?

No, seriously. Our location and natural resources could make us an economic threat. Tired of drinking coffee and eating cup cakes, Lewesians might want to raid Ringmer's allotments for fresh fruit and vegetables. When Harveys best bitter became too familiar, the Lewes warriors would be heading for Turners brewery on the B2192. 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 they'd 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 force. 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 down the road.

Of course, all this conflict could be avoided with negotiations and some friendly cross-border arrangements. Earlier this month Lewes celebrated its twin town partnership with Waldshut-Tiengen by staging two days of entertainment... but I'd like to suggest a new sibling that's closer to home. A sibling with untested military might. One with shared interests but a different demographic. Yes, I’m thinking of Ringmer. So, come on, Lewes - it's time for a twinning ceremony. You provide the beer and the organic salad. And we'll promise not to invade.

First published on vivalewes.com 17th October 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/twin-piques/

Fair and square dancing

My childhood was predominantly fictional. I spent much of the time with my nose in books, many of them sci-fi. This led me to the world of Ray Bradbury, whose stories told of travelling fairs with fantastical sideshows. Tattooed torsos. Halls of Mirrors. Running away to join the carnival. I don't mind admitting I was a little scared, even though my experience of fairs had been limited to the 'win a goldfish in a bag' variety. As an adult, I discovered a novel by Amanda Davis called 'Wonder When You'll Miss Me'. Again there was a travelling fair, there was running away and there was an element of other-worldliness. I read it with the same apprehension and excitement I'd previously reserved for Mr Bradbury.

The recent arrival of the fair in Ringmer reawakened all these memories. Although our resident teenager reckons he's now too old for bumper cars (this is untrue; the only limit is whether you can squeeze your bottom into the seat), I couldn't help making a detour past the village green where the fair was. There were a few surprises. As well as candy floss and those death-defying and gravity-enhancing rides that force all your organs into the space usually occupied by your lungs, there were bouncy castles. Yes, bouncy castles. I can't imagine many people having a dream of running off to inflate bouncy castles every night. Where was Lydia, the tattooed lady?

Probably at the barn dance with her children. That's where I was. If Ringmer were a fictional village in a soap opera, the coincidence of the fair arriving and a barn dance taking place would seem implausible. But that's how we roll.

I reckon about a hundred people turned up to raise funds for one of the local schools. Unlike lesser events, this one was held in a real barn, served a real hog roast at half-time and had a real band. The caller was identified by Mrs B as a former music teacher - "the girls were a bit scared of her at school" - and she'd clearly not lost any of that authority. When she said "dance", you danced.

Still, it was all good fun. Even I enjoyed a do-si-do - and I have two self-conscious tone-deaf left feet.

As we walked home from the hoedown, the sound of pop music playing at the fair drifted towards us. From Billy Ray Cyrus to Miley Cyrus, I thought. I wondered about a last-minute dodgem car ride but decided my last pint of Harveys had made that unadvisable. Anyway, I didn't want to run away and join the fair anymore. I wanted to join a barn dance band instead.

First published on vivalewes.com 3rd October 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/fair-and-square-dancing/

Going back to my routes

Certain aspects of holidays remained a complete mystery to me when I was a child. One such mystery was those 'Holiday Route' road signs - a yellow rectangle containing the letters HR in black - that often marked part of our journey to the exotic lands of Devon and North Wales. I could never work out exactly when or why dad was following them. Their only purpose seemed to be creating a procession of slow-moving traffic for locals to avoid.

Today, as an adult and a driver, I'm none the wiser. These days you hardly see HR signs, anyway. Everyone's on the motorway with their sat-nav and no-one's sitting in the passenger seat of a Mini Traveller with an AA guidebook.

What I did understand as a child (and still understand today) was the holiday appeal of Lewes. I spent my 13th birthday in the town, celebrating by taking pictures of the castle and the railway station with my new 35mm ‘grown up’ camera. Although I didn't really appreciate the castle being hidden up a little lane behind the High Street, we had a fun day out. There was picnicking on mum’s home-made cheese tarts and dad’s home-grown tomatoes, if I remember correctly. Unfortunately the camera wasn't particularly good, so my memories aren't photographic.

This year, Lewes has received plenty more summer visitors. Now, like migrant swallows, most have departed - and the snaking queue of customers between Le Magasin and Bill's Produce Store has finally disappeared. (Some say the queue changes direction on occasions, with a few people at the back of the line being served breakfast as they wait for lunch at the neighbouring restaurant). Yet while Lewesians breathe a sigh of relief when the sightseers say goodbye, we in Ringmer have enjoyed an entire season of peace. In fact, although there are a couple of places in the village offering Bed and Breakfast, I think I can safely say that Ringmer is not a tourist trap.

How can I be so sure?  Just five simple checks. First, I've never seen anyone in Ringmer suddenly stop walking down the pavement to consult a map. Second, I've not heard anyone here complaining about all the shops turning into coffee bars... or turning into bookshops... or turning into antique dealers. Third, I've never found anyone peering into the local estate agent's window to compare prices with those 'back home'. Fourth, we don't have multiple buskers. And finally, there aren’t any holiday route signs directing traffic along the B2192. Unless… hmm… perhaps we’re at the end of the route. Maybe that's how those yellow signs worked. When you stopped seeing them, it was time to stop driving!

First published on vivalewes.com 19th September 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/going-back-to-my-routes/

The cycle of learning

When I was a teenager, I stepped on a banana skin. Until that point I had no idea banana skins were actually slippery. I'd viewed them as fictional comedy props that never really worked properly, like itching powder and invisible ink. The same as those cartoons where errant cyclists flew over the handlebars. How I laughed. I was even laughing after I flew over the handlebars of my own bike in Lewes this week. My biggest regret was not catching the moment on camera.

It was, you'll be pleased to hear, my fault. Well, I was in a hurry. I wasn't early enough to catch the bus from Ringmer, so I was pedalling frenetically down Southover Road and then stopped too quickly. All of a sudden I was flying through the air and doing an impromptu handstand while my bicycle caught up. "Are you alright?" asked a concerned passer-by. Much to my surprise, I was. I continued to my meeting, had a strong cup of tea (for medicinal purposes only) and cycled home.

Unfortunately the combination of tea and adrenaline eventually ran out. An uncomfortable ache in my left hand became evident. Torn between suffering the pain of my cycling injury and the pain of waiting behind dozens of more-deserving patients in Brighton's Accident & Emergency department, I asked my wife for advice. "Why don't you go to the Minor Injury Unit in Lewes?"

This was a revelation. What a wonderful resource. Although I knew the Lewes Victoria Hospital was there on Nevill Road, I'd not realised it was happy if you wandered in without an appointment. But wander I did. This time I travelled on the 28 bus, which turned out to be a wise choice. After a spot of form-filling at the hospital I was soon seen by ‘Sister’, who gently prodded me, noticed me flinch and sent me off for an x-ray. A few minutes of Bargain Hunt on the TV in reception passed the time adequately before my hand was irradiated. Back to Sister, who'd spotted a worrying line on one of the photographs. Perhaps a scaphoid fracture, she said, perhaps not. But better safe than sorry. She plastered my wrist and part of my arm, booking a consultation for me at the Brighton fracture clinic. They'd take a closer look, possibly with an MRI scan.

The reason for the caution, I was told, was that the damage could affect blood flow to the bone... which in turn could cause problems with my thumb. And, as Sister pointed out, it's our thumbs that set us apart from other animals. Too true, I thought, as I strolled back to the bus stop. Without a thumb I'd be no more use than a cat. And what chance was there of a cat ever writing this column?

First published on vivalewes.com 5th September 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/the-cycle-of-learning/