Viva Lewes April 2015 Issue #103

column
Huuuuur. Huuuuur. An unfamiliar rattling sound
stirs me from my weekend lie-in. I’m just about to
check Mrs B’s airways before I realise the noise is
coming from outside, not from my sleeping wife.
One of our neighbours is mowing his lawn. Winter
is officially over... as is any hope of an extra halfhour
in bed. Time to put the kettle on.
Rural life has many benefits - but don’t make the
mistake of thinking it’s all twittering skylarks, fragrant
wild flowers and slow-moving Morris Minors
around here. In fact, I reckon Lionel Richie would
never have written the lyric ‘Easy like Sunday
Morning’ if he’d been living in Ringmer. Certainly
not if he’d relied on public transport. Instead of
a gentle ballad we’d probably have something
rather more frantic, inspired by Lionel nervously
checking his watch and wondering whether he’d
end up jogging down the new cycle path because
he’d missed the hourly bus. Neither would Lionel
have been particularly relaxed if he was within
earshot of the village church, where one of the bells
has cracked. Apparently this isn’t covered by the
manufacturer’s warranty, despite being barely 130
years old. The offending bell currently sounds like
an ancient tin bath being struck with an equally
elderly saucepan, which is why it’s staying quiet at
the moment. The other seven bells are still being
rung but the eighth is conspicuous by its absence.
No, there’s nothing especially easy about Sunday
East of Earwig
Mark Bridge senses disharmony in Ringmer
mornings in this part of the world.
But all this pales into insignificance when Mrs B
wakes. She has a Garden Centre look in her eyes.
Unfortunately it’s not a ‘nice mug of coffee and a
bowl of soup’ trip that she has in mind. In the time
it took me to pop downstairs and make a cup of
tea, she’s prepared a shopping list. It looks like a
medieval incantation to rid one’s husband of distemper,
although she assures me it’s merely a few
Latin plant names and some organic fertiliser. My
wife is the one with green fingers; my gardening
performance is more akin to a Vulcan nerve pinch,
inadvertently rendering plants into unconsciousness
with the effortless technique of Mr Spock. It’s
usually safest if I stick to digging and weeding. And
with spring in the air, Mrs B’s seasonal interest
in gardening will soon broaden to include other
activities I’m just as poor at. There’ll be unfathomable
colour charts for interior decoration. There
may even be talk of choosing new cushions.
All this leaves me a long way outside my comfort
zone, so there’s only one thing left to do. One
last desperate attempt to escape all these challenges.
Something that’ll outclass my neighbour’s
garden-tidying efforts, too. Most importantly, it’s
traditional. It’s a ritual that’s been passed from generation
to generation since the dawn of history. It’s
a Sunday morning routine that unites communities.
It’s time I went to the tip.
Photo by Mark Bridge
103