Looking for love at breakfast time

It’s Saturday morning and my wife is smiling at me in a way that melts my heart. I am indeed a lucky man. On other occasions she has a different look that’s capable of melting someone’s face, leaving her victim looking like the Gestapo agent in Raiders of the Lost Ark. That’s not happened to me. Not yet, anyway.

This is one of those special moments I’d like to remember, although I don’t know how best to do it. Some people write diary entries, take photos or drink champagne when there’s something to celebrate. Others may carve their initials in a tree, get a tattoo or buy another charm for their bracelet. I’m looking for something that’s more personal. Something unique.

February is already a special month for me and Mrs B. We first met on February 16th, two days after St Valentine's Day. To be honest, I was rather pleased with myself. Not only did I have a guaranteed reminder every year, I could also buy a romantic anniversary gift at a dramatically discounted price. We’d feast on cut-price chocolates. If only we’d thought to get married on the same day.

This morning I’ve just presented Mrs B with a plate of toasted crumpets and a jar of Marmite. That, I’m sure, has helped prompt the smile. We’re sitting at the kitchen table, having breakfast. As I lean forward to put butter on my toast, Rupert the cat jumps into the space behind me. He's not allowed on my lap when we're eating but has decided that becoming a bony cushion is an acceptable compromise. When I sit down again, I perch carefully on the edge of my chair. Rupert starts purring loudly, although anyone hearing the noise without seeing the creature would imagine I was incubating a gargling pigeon. Is this affection? Is this happiness? I turn to address the cat. "What do you know about love, Rupert?" He looks at me curiously, as though I'm the one making a strange sound. My wife answers. "He doesn't think about love any more. Not after the operation." She then mimes scissors in a way I find slightly disconcerting.

I flinch, an unconscious response to Rupert’s emasculation. Mrs B leans across the table to give me a reassuring kiss. I flinch again, this time because she's forgotten the plate of crumpets in front of her. Afterwards, I notice that her dressing gown is now marked with a Marmite outline of her right breast, like a savoury Turin Shroud. I know it’s not permanent but maybe it’ll last until our wedding anniversary.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 101 February 2015.

Shopping for the purr-fect present in Ringmer

“Mip” says Rupert the cat. “Mip, mip.” He’s speaking in Morse code, as usual. Harry, his companion and occasional sparring partner, joins in. “Marup, merup, morup.” I’ve no idea what Harry’s saying. Either Latin or Martian, I’d guess. He nibbles my ankle to encourage my translation efforts. Ah, yes. Time for cat dinner.

In recent years, the two cats that share our Ringmer home have increasingly been happy for me to prepare their food. Harry still occasionally makes a menu suggestion by carefully placing a fully-functioning mouse under the kitchen table, but he’s generally satisfied with a sachet of whatever’s on special offer. Their current food supply claims to be “independently taste tested by experts”, according to the box. I’ve had some bad jobs in my time but that really would top the list. Equally disturbingly, their biscuits are branded as “food cats would naturally choose”. Would my feline guests pop them in the shopping trolley if they had a chance – or would they rather be baking their own? Either way, I’m not convinced.

The ankle-biting is also a timely reminder that the boys will expect a Christmas present. Or, at least, will need a little distraction when the turkey’s being cooked. Local butcher Lew Howard has an ever-growing list of orders at this time of year but I’m not placing an extra one to please our cats. No, it’s off to The Pet Store, a.k.a. Creature Comforts.

That’s one of the great things about living in a village. Although you may not be able to get everything you need, there’s a pretty good chance you’ll have at least one specialist shop that puts many big-city rivals to shame. We have a wealth of such professionals in Ringmer, from home-based businesses to a warehouse or two. And right in the heart of the village, a pet shop with a dog grooming salon. Not merely a retailer but an entertainer. Watching an afghan hound being dried is more fun than most reality TV shows.

When I call in and ask about Christmas gifts, I’m told it’s dogs rather than cats that tend to receive most presents. Apparently this is because dog owners tend to indulge their pets more. I have my own theory. I reckon it’s about the animal’s sense of humour. Dogs like slapstick comedy, while cats prefer irony. You see, there are plenty of amusing dog gifts – clip-on antlers, knitted jumpers, chewy boxes, tinned Christmas dinner – but not so much for cats. I even wonder about buying them an automatic cat feeder before I realise I’d be rendering myself useless.

And then I spot an advent calendar with a catnip treat hidden behind each door. Next to it, a treat-filled fishnet stocking for December 25th. I buy both. Traditional and ironic. Let’s hope the joke is appreciated.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 99 December 2014.

Dancing for the fifth

There's one important thing I've learned since moving to Ringmer: 'bonfire' is a verb and an adjective as well as a noun. But this isn't the kind of linguistic error sometimes heard when over-enthusiastic broadcasters predict Olympic athletes may 'medal' and racing drivers could 'podium'. Instead, it shows how strong the bonfire tradition is in this part of the world. I imagine some bonfire society members are capable of holding entire conversations by using the single word ‘bonfire’ with varying intonation.

To be honest, I've always had a slightly strange relationship with bonfire traditions. As a child growing up in West Sussex, I'd often be taken to Littlehampton bonfire night. This took place on the Saturday before November 5th, which seemed inappropriately premature, although the presence of men in blackface makeup and African warrior costumes puzzled me even more. Why weren't they singing Al Jolson songs?

Sometimes, as an alternative, we’d attend the celebrations of Clapham and Patching bonfire club. These took place on the weekend after Guy Fawkes Night, which was no less confusing. However, eventually I understood these were all secondary to the fiery festivity that took place in Lewes.

I have vivid memories of one family trip when we snuck over the county border into Lewes for Bonfire night. The air was thick with smoke and paraffin fumes from the torches. But despite my imagining that the entire crowd could spontaneously combust, there was no real-life drama. Even as a youngster I was aware of 'volenti non fit injuria'; a concept my family tended to refer to as 'it's your own stupid fault'.

Finally, after all the societies had paraded, all the brass bands had marched and a few people in the crowd had tried to chuck a rookie into a passing tuba, there was time for one last mysterious tradition. This was the Going Home Dance, which wasn't just conducted by our family but by the entire conglomeration of visitors. It starts with a child standing on the kerb next to their parent's car. They lift their left leg, usually holding it by the ankle, while the parent shines a light on the sole of the child's left shoe. When the parent nods, the child hops to their right leg, taking care not to topple onto the verge. Sometimes this is when the dance ends. Yet if the parent issues the command "wipe!", there's a completely new set of moves as the child shuffles vigorously on any nearby grass. Only when the all-clear is given does the journey home begin.

Today, as an adult, I understand much more about the origins of bonfire. I’m proud to live near Lewes. And I’m planning to be in the bonfire crowd with my torch. Battery, not paraffin. Just in case I need to dance.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 98 November 2014.

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