Taking a cakie

I whip out my mobile phone and take a photo of my birthday cake. This isn't a family tradition or even an obsessive personal habit, although I'll admit to having more than one cake photo in my collection. It just seemed a nice way to celebrate my recent birthday.

My picture, in case you're wondering, only includes the cake. Nothing else. It's not a self-portrait... or even a 'selfie', which is entirely different. In my personal dictionary, 'self-portrait' refers to an accurate photographic representation, perhaps taken with the aid of a tripod and clockwork timer, while a selfie is an exaggerated low-quality wide-angle picture that gives its subject the eyes of a bush-baby and the chin of Dick Dastardly. Anyway, it's not one of those. Neither is it a 'cakie', which is undoubtedly what a cake/selfie hybrid will end up being called at some point.

Having taken the photo, I realise there's nothing to give it any context. Although my only aim was to avoid including my face, I've actually managed to exclude all sense of time. This, when I think about it, is what makes most archive pictures so fascinating. We're not just interested in seeing great-grandfather's face; we're equally fascinated by his sense of fashion. The hat, the sideburns, the shirt: it's his clothes and hair that really intrigue us. The same goes for films and TV. James Cameron's 1997 movie Titanic used cutting-edge digital technology to recreate the ship yet still managed to give Leonardo DiCaprio a haircut from 85 years in the future. Star Trek might be set in the 23rd century but the styling of the original series was rooted in the 1960s. Its 'space hippies' episode (stardate 5832.3, or 1969 if you prefer) has aged particularly badly.

Now, I don't mind occasionally detailing my failings. But I don't want to become a laughing stock simply because I've followed the same social norms and societal pressures as most of my contemporaries. So what can I do about photos? Well, I'm beginning to formulate a plan. What if my pictures were impossible to date? What if the archaeologists of the future couldn't ascertain where or when I'd existed? I'm going to buy some replica Norman armour from the castle gift shop and a toy robot from Wickle. I may even wear a wig. The next time I take a cakie, it'll be impossible to work out what era I'm living in. Most importantly, my new props will prevent me from looking stupid.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 97 October 2014.

Having a wonderful time…

We're on holiday in Cornwall, leaving Ringmer free for Cornish tourists to visit. "What do you write in a postcard?" says my wife, as we shelter from the drizzle. Sadly she's not asking because she needs my literary skills. No, she doesn't see me as Hemingway in a Hawaiian shirt or Oscar Wilde with a suntan. It's purely practical guidance she's looking for.

Quite simply, she wants me to provide a summary of holiday highlights. But what have we done? We've eaten out a bit... but that's hardly unusual. In fact, there's not even a branch of Bill's around here, despite the company's recent expansion rate being equivalent to a culinary Big Bang. Perhaps my wife and I have been indulging in some holiday vices? Nope. Admittedly my pasty consumption is up, yet my coffee and cake consumption has dropped. No overall gain, I say.

I struggle to think how our behaviour has differed from any other day away from work. Let's see. Sometimes on holiday I wear trousers that convert into shorts. They seemed a good idea at the time. Instead of doing what non-holiday people do - checking the weather forecast before they leave home - I have trousers that contain a plastic zip below the knee. One day some enterprising sportswear manufacturer will probably create a jacket that transforms into a waistcoat and then a vest. I may buy one, despite the risk of ending up with just a single sleeve.

My wife was prepared for the rain and is dressed in a heavy-duty waterproof jacket. This is her sartorial antidote to my convertible shorts. It's a remarkable garment that appears to intensify her annoyance with the weather, compressing and focusing it into a glum laser burning from underneath the peaked hood. The result is like having a water-cannon aimed at your soul. In this coat she's barely recognisable as the woman I married, although I hardly dare look at her in case she turns me into a pillar of salt and then washes me away.

Anything else? Well, because I've been wearing shorts and sandals, my ankles are now sunburned. Under any other circumstance, a potentially carcinogenic injury that caused my skin to peel off would be treated as a medical emergency. Yet, from a holiday perspective, tradition dictates it should be viewed as somewhere between mildly annoying and hilariously funny.

I'm about to suggest this as a starting point for the postcard when there's a commotion down the street. As I turn to see what's causing the fuss, I notice a seagull fly out from a crowd of people. Adults are shouting at it. Children are laughing. The seagull displays a mouthful of stolen chips as it passes.

I steal a glance at my wife. She seems to be smiling. I wonder if she's amused by the seagull's antics. Then I see she's just written the phrases 'pink ankle' and 'comedy trousers' on her postcard.

First published on VivaLewes.com 14th August 2014

Come on in, the water’s fine

There's something rather compelling about a large body of water. The ebb and flow of the river Ouse captivates me whenever I cross the bridge at the end of Cliffe High Street. Swans swim past when the tide comes in, large chunks of Barcombe float by when the tide goes out. I'm equally intrigued by the harbour at Newhaven, the shingle at Saltdean and the pier-and-a-half in Brighton. This is probably because my childhood was punctuated with family walks along the seafront at Worthing, often featuring one of my father's weather forecasts. "If you can see Brighton, it's going to rain", he'd say. "If you can't see Brighton, it's already raining." Eventually I got the joke, although I spent many years marvelling at dad's meteorological accuracy.

Here in land-locked Ringmer, we have nothing bigger than a pond. This is a relatively static body of water, disturbed only by the occasional misplaced cricket ball or empty can of extra-strength cider. I once saw a heron there. It looked disappointed.

We can also rustle up a couple of old water pumps, which are fascinating historical artefacts but don't work. We even have a few half-hearted tributaries from the Ouse making their way into the village. But we just don't have the volume of water that has inspired poets and artists through the ages. There is, quite frankly, very little romance to be found in a shallow ditch.

My first thought is to mount a campaign. Plans to allow Cuckmere Haven to flood have proved contentious... so let's move the focus inland. Maybe the football club would trade their pitch for an artificial lake. Better still, perhaps the controversial plans to develop Clay Hill reservoir could be revived and refocused on the village green. Ringmer would become the windsurfing capital of Sussex.

As I search the internet for inspiration, my mission takes on new urgency. I learn that a research study last year found people living in 'marine and coastal environments' were happier than those further inland. This means my quest for some kind of aquatic feature is an issue that should concern everyone. Not only do we like to be beside the seaside, our well-being actually depends on it.

And, dear Ringmer resident, I have finally found success. I have tracked down a large body of moving water on the edge of our village. Not the swimming pool. Not a dew pond. No, I've found something with considerably more volume and more movement.

In fact, it's full of movements. So forget about the river. Ignore the sea. Bring your deck chairs to Ringmer's sewage treatment plant. The air is undoubtedly bracing and it's not too crowded. Some might even say you'll be flushed with happiness.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine August 2014 and on VivaLewes.com 31st July 2014

Manure wanted

There's a sign by one of the allotments at Earwig Corner. "Manure wanted", it reads. It could, of course, be a genuine request from a person who doesn't have enough manure in their life. But I think it's a test. I reckon it's a cunning ploy to separate the townie from the country dweller. If you laugh, you're obviously an urbanite. However, if your response is along the lines of "that’s brilliant, I've got a huge pile of the stuff behind the barn", then you're a fully signed-up member of the rural community. Television presenter John Craven believes he's failed this test. In a recent interview about his role on the Countryfile TV programme, he said "I think of myself as very much a country person. Although I know I'll never be fully accepted. But I like to think, as we try to prove on the show, there’s room for everyone in the countryside" I think he's trying too hard. If he'd stuck with the brightly-patterned jumpers he wore for children's television instead of kitting himself out in practical weatherproof clothing, he'd have fitted right in.

John Craven suggests he’s been a bit of a bad omen for the countryside since he started presenting Countryfile. In his interview he lists some of the unpleasant diseases that have affected British livestock since 1989. Yet if Mr Craven is the pastoral black sheep, I reckon I’m the equivalent of a smiling Japanese cat with its paw raised. Since I arrived in Ringmer we’ve had a pizza takeaway appear, Ringmer Community College has had its best-ever exam results and the sun smiled on the village fair. No, you really don’t need to thank me.

What’s John doing wrong? Some would say the secret to fitting in round here is in the language. Forget about your alleyways, in Sussex they’re twittens. Middlin’ is a useful all-purpose adverb, verb or noun. Always pronounce Firle with two syllables. And don’t, whatever you do, say too much about being druv.

I’m not so sure. I think becoming part of village society is more about being yourself and not trying to impress. Leaning on a five-bar gate and chewing a piece of grass won't endear you to many people. I’ve not seen round here anyone take a deep breath and say “arrr” when there’s the smell of silage in the air. Finally, I’d recommend not trying to match Emmerdale’s baby-swapping gun-toting bed-hopping antics. That’s the kind of manure no-one needs.

First published on Viva Lewes 17th July 2014: vivalewes.com

Keeping it real in Ringmer

It's important not to lose touch with reality. At least, that's what Rupert the cat told me last week. We were chatting on our way back from the vet, where he’d been treated for fight-related injuries. Mind you, I understand that some people may not define 'important' and 'reality' in the same way as I do. Back when I worked for a big telecommunications company, I was convinced that any presentation I produced could be given a title from a country music song. When I needed an off-beat starting point, I'd look to Nashville for inspiration. "Flushed from the bathroom of your heart" was a particular triumph. Shortly after I implemented this major lyrical innovation, my job disappeared. I reckon someone stole my idea and then covered up the evidence. Crazy? That's exactly what Patsy Cline said.

Anyway, these days I'm keeping both feet firmly on the ground... and living in Ringmer is one of the ways I do this. It's certainly a dramatic contrast from my previous home. Before I moved here I lived in a West Sussex town with many tourists and almost enough gift shops to house them all on a rainy Saturday. A little like Lewes, some might say. I couldn't possibly comment.

We even had a 'lifestyle' shop that sold an impractical and unlikely combination of kitchen equipment, cosmetics, stationery, imported photo frames and expensive toys. Plus, of course, coffee and scented candles. Secretly I loved it.

In fact, I could have enjoyed afternoon tea in a different place every day for a month without having the same type of cake twice. That's how many coffee bars and tea shops there were. Budgetary constraints kept my blood-sugar levels stable, although I was tempted on several occasions.

Fortunately, the reality of Ringmer has saved me from myself... and from any similar temptation. There's only one bakery. You see, no-one would raise an eyebrow if I walked into a pub and the barman said "your usual, Mark?" before pouring a pint of Harveys. It's much less socially acceptable to be presented with a Belgian bun in a paper bag whenever you meet a baker. The embarrassment of being recognised as a frequent customer keeps my patisserie habit under control. You need to know when to walk away. Well, that's what Rupert says anyway. Or was it Kenny Rogers?

First published on Viva Lewes 3rd July 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com

Fathers figure

The pub in the middle of the village is decked in patriotic bunting. At least, I'm assuming the aim is patriotism. I'm also assuming the specific target of that patriotism is the England football team, despite Wikipedia telling me the cross of St George is "used extensively across Northern Italy". I hope there weren't too many homesick Italians seeking refuge there after the match last Saturday. It seems unlikely, given that a pizza delivery company is the only sign of Mediterranean culture I've noticed in Ringmer.

And then, on Sunday, the mood changed completely... but the pub remained busy. You could almost describe it as a 'perfect storm'. The combination of football's World Cup and Father's Day offered a unique opportunity for pub landlords. Dads were encouraged to spend two full days propping up the bar: one day with their mates, one day with their family. A balanced social life? Maybe.

Rather than watching football in a crowd, I stayed at home on the sofa with Rupert the cat. We had the TV on for the big game but - now Springwatch has finished on the BBC - there's nothing that quite grips us in the same way. When you've watched a 14-year-old cat stalking a tiny image of Bill Oddie, even the youthful enthusiasm of Raheem Sterling pales into insignificance. Fortunately the tweeting stopped and Mr Oddie disappeared before Rupert could embarrass himself by pouncing.

As for Father's Day, I'm one of those people who sadly no longer has a father to celebrate with. Actually, dad and I never observed the third Sunday in June as a special day. He thought it was a load of commercial nonsense; a sentiment I largely agree with. As a result, my sense of loss is tempered by the knowledge that at least I'm not being conned out of the price of a greetings card. I like to think it's his legacy, along with hereditary male-pattern baldness and a fondness for fried bread.

Yet as the pubs fill with men treating themselves and their offspring to a roast dinner, I'm left feeling a little lonely. I turn to the cat for inspiration. He's back on the sofa and gently prodding my cardigan with his front feet, as a kitten might. I think he wants a cuddle from his mum. Over here, mate. Shall we order a pizza?















First published on Viva Lewes 19th June 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com/

Time and motion

Whenever people from outside the local area ask me where I live, I usually tell them Ringmer is a village around three miles from Lewes. That’s not strictly true. If I was talking to a flying crow, they’d evaluate the journey at closer to two miles. Anyone looking at parish boundaries might view us as neighbours. It’s all a matter of perception. My uncertainty about distances was prompted by a visit from friends who are based in London. They don’t measure distances, they measure time. For them, it’s fifteen minutes between the office and their home. The mysteries of underground travel render straight-line measurements useless. They even suggested meeting in Uckfield because it was ten minutes closer. It’s not ten minutes if you’re cycling.

When watching TV shows made in the United States, I’ve noticed that city-dwellers quantify their journeys in ‘blocks’. That seems to be around a hundred yards, although building sizes will vary – which makes it about as much use as the ‘country mile’ my grandmother sometimes referred to. In fact, if any American visitors are reading this, I reckon there are twenty blocks to a country mile. I hope that helps.

Down in Eastbourne, a professor from the University of Brighton devised a series of ‘fitness walks’ that gave an idea of how much energy could be used by walking a few miles. I think something similar should be introduced for Lewes. You could plan a route between coffee shops that would result in the entire journey being calorie-neutral. Rather than saying “I’ll be there in thirty minutes”, you’d be measuring your journey as a skinny cappuccino and a digestive biscuit. A chocolate caramel from Laporte’s would probably get me all the way back to Ringmer. Of course, a precise calculation also depends on the person’s weight and the enthusiasm of their walking… which means it’s still a little vague.

As a child, I was – quite rightly – mystified by the trust some people put in egg timers. We use a ‘football pitch’ to describe large areas and we measure height in double-decker buses, despite neither being fixed. And when my brother went shopping for a new car, he assessed the size of the boot by checking how many golf bags it could hold. It all reminds me of the response offered by an engineer I once worked with. When we went for lunch, customers would sometimes ask how much time we’d be away. “An hour or more, whichever’s longer”, replied Len.

So I’m going to revise my description of Ringmer. I reckon I should describe it in terms that are more poetic, as befits its rural location. As well as measuring distance in country miles, my grandmother would also measure a brief moment of time as “two shakes of a lamb’s tale”. Obviously that’s just a fraction of a second – but given my average walking speed, particularly when offered cake as an incentive, I think Ringmer is around 10,000 lamb-tail shakes from Lewes. That’s pretty clear, isn’t it?

First published on Viva Lewes 5th June 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com/