See the red and green displays: Just 58 more shopping days

Schools go back: tick. Hallowe’en: tick. Bonfire: tick. And then, wham, it’s straight onto the figgy-pudding-holly-tinsel-O-little-town rollercoaster. Still, the annual ‘I can’t believe they’ve got their decorations up already it’s not yet bloody December’ conversation is a welcome change to discussing how enjoyable/ruined Bonfire is without rookies.

If only we had Thanksgiving, to prevent Christmas from getting off the starting blocks too early. Mind you, Thanksgiving sounds like a nightmare-ish prequel to Chrismas, what with having to eat turkey, watch terrible telly, and hang out with your family, but with no presents to take the edge off.

Why Christmas creeps up on me unawares every year is a mystery - it’s not like there aren’t any announcements – but on the other hand, it does keep it fresh. If I didn’t have my traditional mid-November crisis, triggered by a full-body recoil from the display of mince pies at the entrance to Waitrose, I would hardly feel festive at all. In Cheese Please the other day, the lady told me that many customers have already ordered their Christmas hampers, and put in their Yuletide Stilton orders. Who are these people, and how can I become them? 

I’m not a leave-it-till-Christmas-Eve type, but neither am I brushing my hands together in an ‘all done’ gesture in July. I seem constitutionally unable to get it together till the start of December, by which time the combined forces of telly, shops and other people make me panic. Out of that panic has come a kind of system, which I will share for those of you who haven’t yet sorted your cheese orders.

1. Never throw any scraps of paper away on which you have made lists. (For one thing, the Getty Institute will buy them when you’re famous.)

2. (Relates to 1): Find last year’s list of the people you sent Christmas cards to.
3.  Cross off anyone who has died recently. Now you have your Christmas card list.
4. Buy cards and wrap in the Cards for Good Causes shop.
5. Go to late night shopping with Grange Girl. Write down everything she buys from the list she made in July. Drink free mulled wine while you wait for her to pay.
6. The day after late night shopping, go round the shops – they’ll be a lot quieter now – and buy everything Grange Girl bought. You can work out who gets what at a later date. Get three of everything, because you know more people than she does. (Grangey claims to know just five people.)
7. Ask the lady in Cheese Please what the most popular Christmas order is. Copy it.
8. Go into Harveys or Symposium and order as much booze as you can afford.
9. Use some of the items in 8 to get you through one solid evening of binge-wrapping.
10. All done. You’re welcome. If you want to buy me a thank you present, I’m fond of cheese.

Beth Miller. Published in VivaLewes.com

Hoxton Mum’s May Diary

Weds 1^st

Totes excited! So many festies, so little time. Brighton first, obvs. Lovely Mikey Rosen with his droopy eyes and populist spin. Have found cerrr-azy sounding kids’ event for Django, called Flathampton – culturally challenging, plus creative participation: perfecto. And Lysander will heart the play I’ve booked for his birthday treat: We’re All Gonna Die.

Fri 2^nd

Everything on the Fringe sounds amazeballs, but so hard to know which will - like last year’s one-woman monologue I Want To Be A Vicar - prompt Lysander to storm out demanding refund. Mind you, he later made me sit through sub-Frankie Boyle ‘comedy’ show during which I was actually sick into my Chloé tote. I said, Lysander, if I want to hear jokes about mental health problems I will jolly well make them myself, thanks very much! Plus you owe me £1100 for new bag.

Sat 3^rd

Gutted I missed Early Bird for Elderflowerfields. Bought Late Bird tickets, then double-gutted to discover it’s on the same weekend as Meadowlands! When I worked at the Battersea Arts Centre, heads would roll for such a scheduling faux pas.

Mon 6^th

Trotted round town watching the Knots of May do their bell-jangling thang. Lysander, three Harveys down, rudely said that women Morris dancers even less enjoyable than men plus not traditional. Was in midst of eloquent feminist retort, when Django let side down by ripping his flower garland to shreds.  Fear his father is engendering the rigid gender roles we’d agreed Django must reject.

Thurs 9^th

Woke at 3am in cold sweat: had forgotten to book Charleston. Rushed to laptop and spent ten minutes blinded by panic into believing that only Melvyn Bragg was left. Thank god managed to get Joanne Harris and Audrey Niffenegger. LOVE Charleston, I will channel Virginia by wearing long cardie. And by sleeping with my friends. Kidding!

Sun 19^th

Got festival survival kit ready for our Elderflower/Meadowlands weekend (we are dashing between the two). Hunters wellies, tagine, Jo Malone room diffusers.

Fri 26^th

As we were about to leave, those male swine I live with appeared in headbands and TIE-DYE T-SHIRTS. To complete hideous tableaux, Lysander had taught Django to roll a spliff one-handed, and this is a child who can’t yet tie his laces. (His Geox all have Velcro fastenings). Sent them to change and loudly pretended to call divorce lawyer.

Tues 28^th

I remarked that two festivals in one weekend sure is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Lysander retorted that he wished the once had been twenty-five years earlier, rather than now. I am so shattered I went to bed without removing my sparkly festival eye-shadow; face now resembles crumpled glitter wrapping paper.

Fri 31^st

Thank god I have a month to prepare for July: Hop Farm and Love Supreme (both same weekend, thanks again, Scheduling Fiends), and then of course lovely Mumfords. Fired up JohnLewis.com and ordered latest essential festie must-have: portable Nespresso machine. Totes sorted.

Beth Miller. Published in Viva Lewes magazine, May 2013.

                                                     

Great balls of fire

‘It’s an interesting linguistic conundrum, isn’t it?’ mused Cycle Girl, as she tried to balance a pint of Harveys, a score sheet, her bag and phone. The Harveys won, naturally – everything else slid to the floor.

‘What, the ambiguous status of the word “balls”?’ said DJ Mama, showing off a little by juggling four skittle balls.

‘It’s one of those words that’s innocent in some contexts, and rude in others.’

‘On such a premise was the entire flimsy edifice of Are You Being Served built,’ said Born and Bred Boy, who was playing for the other team. In the literal sense of the phrase.

‘There are a lot of words like that,’ continued Cycle Girl, ‘For example…’

‘That’s quite enough, thank you,’ said Grange Girl, who had only popped into the Grange gardens to complain about the noise but was now dragged against her will into our team.

‘It seems silly to make a fuss about balls,’ said Head Girl, ‘when here we are, playing with them.’

‘Fnar,’ said Aging Lad wearily. After more than forty years of laughing dutifully at double entendres he can’t stop now, even though he’d clearly like to. If there’s a gap where someone ought to say ‘fnar’ he can’t bear it to go unfilled (fnar.)

The stern but friendly Rotarians in the Control Caravan announced the line-up for the Ladies Tournament in which we were playing, despite Grange Girl’s insistence that the term “ladies” was offensive. Most of the other teams had names like the Haywards Heath Harriers or The Pretty Shoes. No other team had the honour of their name being censored.

‘And in lane seven, playing Pink & Perky…’

‘Fnar,’ sighed Aging Lad.

‘How did they get their name approved?’ asked Cycle Girl.

‘...playing Pink & Perky are Ladies With, uh, Appendages.’

‘I think that’s us.’

‘Flipping heck,’ said Sweary Mary. ‘Lucky we didn’t go with Pussy Posse.’

Aging Lad held up a sign that said ‘Fnar,’ and the game commenced.

‘Has anyone practised at all?’ asked Grange Girl, as we quickly came to realise that the true meaning of balls for us was round objects you miss skittles with. ‘Or ever played before?’

‘Crazy golf’s my sport,’ said DJ Mama, launching a ball whistling into the air and narrowly missing several spectators.

‘I practised in the garden with pebbles,’ said Cycle Girl, sending her ball so wide it went into the next lane and knocked over more of their skittles than she’d ever managed of ours.

Born and Bred Boy sauntered over. ‘Just scored fourteen,’ he said. ‘What’s your top score?’

‘Three,’ said Head Girl bitterly, trampling our score sheet into the mud.

‘Head is another of those words,’ said Cycle Girl.

‘So’s score,’ said Sweary Mary.

Born and Bred Boy picked up one of the balls we were using.

‘You know what the trouble is? Your balls aren’t heavy enough.’

‘Fnar,’ we all said cheerily.

Beth Miller, July 6th 2011. Published in VivaLewes.com. Photo by Alex Leith

Yeah, these are just the rules and regulations

A little known subsection of the unwritten British constitution concerns rules specific to Lewes. These are rarely discussed and remain largely untested. I’m only going to commit them to paper, or whatever this webby thing equivalent is made of, because last weekend I discovered there are two more than I realised. The standard rules, which we all know, are:

(1) We won’t be druv.

(2) Druv is an elusive concept, but essentially means our right to object if anyone does anything we don’t like.

(3) We have to not be druv a lot, because despite living in one of the most prosperous areas of one of the richest countries on earth, rotters are always trying to push us around with regard to our beer and whatnot.

(4) Talking of beer, Harveys is the best in the world. End of.

(5) There is no fence-sitting here. Lewes will not tolerate wishy-washy middle-grounders. You’re either Waitrose or Tescos. You’re either a Tory who votes Tory, or a Labourite who votes Liberal. You either hate DFLs, or you are a DFL. You either think the parking scheme is the greatest example of man’s inhumanity to man, or you say things like, ‘But I can always get into the Needlemakers car-park now and anyway you only get a ticket if you break the rules.’

(6) Bonfire Clause 1. If you’re not for it, you’re against it. Vaguely non-committal is not an option. Anyone who says, ‘Fireworks are pretty aren’t they? Mind you, seen one parade and you’ve seen them all,’ will be drummed out of town.

(7) Bonfire Clause 2. You are not allowed to say anything critical about Bonfire Societies. Unless you’re a member of a Society having a pop at another Society; this is an essential element of Bonfire experience.

(8) No useful shops are allowed to move in. They must all go to Uckfield.

Two weeks ago I went to the Southover Priory May fair thing and found I was falling in line with the hitherto unknown but clearly well-established rule number 9:

(9) Everyone who is within a ten mile radius must attend the May Fair.

Every woman and her husband was there. It was marvellous. I said, ‘hello,’ so many times I ran out and had to substitute the less satisfactory, ‘wotcha’ instead. Thing One was in her element, shooting plastic crossbow arrows, making plastic soldiers out of a mould, and interrogating me as to why there was so much plastic around in the Middle Ages. Thing Two was only interested in climbing teetering piles of Priory rubble, which have stood unmoving since time immemorial but began looking a bit crumbly after he’d happened to them.

Then the drumming started.

(10) There is often drumming at Lewes events. Do not ask why. You will like it. Or if you don’t, get you gone quietly, perhaps to a comfortable hostelry.

You will be pleased to hear that we rule-abiding Lewesians followed this one to the letter.


Beth Miller 18th May 2011. Published in VivaLewes.com and Viva Lewes handbook, May 2012

For auld lang syne

Aging Lad popped in on New Year’s Eve for a pre-clubbing snifter. Pre-clubbing for him, I mean. I was already fondly anticipating that lovely moment when the fireworks stop, around 12.15, and you can go to sleep. Whereas Lad was limbering up for a wild Brighton night that wouldn’t start till the wee small hours.

I offered him some of my precious sherry, to which I’d become seriously attached over the Christmas period. As it’s only available from the Harveys shop, and as they’ve recently run out, it was awfully decent of me. Luckily he waved it away. ‘Got any lager?’

I found a bottle we’d got free from Spice Merchant at the back of the fridge. I prised it off the frost with a spatula.

‘Nice and cold,’ Lad said approvingly.

Man of the House shuffled in wearing his dressing-gown, and flopped into an armchair.

‘Wooh! Party night!’ crowed Lad. ‘Look at you two sad middle-agers.’

We ignored him, as we usually do. ‘Ah,’ sighed Man, sipping sherry daintily. ‘Those superb top-notes of almond…’

‘Followed by that delicious coffee after-taste,’ I concluded.

‘Ah,’ sighed Lad, glugging recklessly and splashing the Radio Times, ‘those superb top-notes of lager, followed by,’ and he belched loudly, ‘bottom notes of lager.’

Lad has been seeing one woman for ages – three months - so I subtly quizzed him about his intentions.

‘Did you give Destiny an engagement ring for Christmas?’

He looked surprised. ‘No. She wanted a tattoo. We got it done yesterday. That’s why she’s not coming out tonight; hurts to sit down.’

‘Thought she was the one, Lad.’Lad looked shifty. ‘She’s very nice. Yes. But. You know.’

‘No.’

‘Am I ready? For all this?’ He swept a hand round our living room.

‘What, Farrow & Ball?’

‘Marriage. Settling down. You know. Slippers and sherry.’

‘I thought you wanted kids, Lad.’

‘Definitely. But I’m only 47. That Lewes bloke who was in all the papers was miles older. And Charlie Chaplin was 73!’

What would male commitment-phobes do without Charlie Chaplin to fall back on?

A sleepy Thing Two came in, citing a nightmare about there being no more chocolate. Lad tried to pick him to prove his child-friendliness, but pulled a muscle in his back. As Man carried Thing Two back to bed with one hand, I reassured Lad, ‘they start off much lighter as babies. You get time to build up to this age.’

‘Don’t suppose there’s any more lager?’

I shook my head.

‘Give me some of that then,’ he said ungraciously, gesturing to the sherry, but as he sipped, his brow cleared.

‘Hey! It’s nice. Top notes of very strong booze.’

He did a kind of tequila-slammer thing with it, then slowly stood up. ‘Right. Off to par-deeeee!’

He sounded less enthusiastic than earlier. Then he sat down again, picked up the damp Radio Times and the sherry bottle and poured himself a heart-stoppingly large dram.

‘Might just watch a bit of the Hootenanny first.’

Beth Miller, 5th January 2011. Published in VivaLewes.com and Viva Lewes magazine, December 2013

She knows she's the chocolate girl

Easter has changed its meaning over the years. When I was a child, it was a time of dismay, because it always coincided with Passover. This is a Jewish festival, so called because the Angel of Chocolate passes over the houses of Jewish children and gives them matzos instead. A matzo is a large square cracker; pleasant enough, but not really a substitute for delicious creamy chocolate. Makes a lousy sandwich too. Bite into it and it explodes into fragments, which is why at Passover, Jewish mothers all carry dust-busters in their handbags.

If only I’d been aware, back then, of Richard Dawkin’s proposition that bringing up a child within a religion is tantamount to abuse. Though he selfishly didn’t make this statement till 2006, far too late for me. To be fair, being brought up a liberal Jew wasn’t usually abusive so much as wishy-washy. Until I was given some criminally horrible ‘approved for Passover’ chocolate, at which point I would have been only too happy to ring Social Services and expose my parents as monsters.

Once I grew up and could abandon the faith of my forefathers, which I did gladly, Easter became a time of supersize gluttony. There were lost years to make up for. Soon after Man of the House and I got together, he briefly left me alone in the car with a large Easter egg which we were taking somewhere as a gift. By the time he’d paid for the petrol, I’d laid waste to it like a plague of locusts, and had no defence other than to mumble, thickly, ‘You were sold a pup, this box only has half an egg in it’.

When my kids were toddlers, Easter became a lovely four day break, spent gazing at their dear little faces as I scoffed the many presents they’d been sent, and occasionally chucked them a smartie.

Then Thing One started school, and Easter is now an immensely long holiday for which I am completely unprepared. Two weeks? Hang on, we’ve only just had half-term. Everyone else must have been secretly planning, as they’ve all gone away, in a mass Exodus (I still remember my Old Testament). In their stead, come a load of people from other places.

In Neros yesterday, I didn’t recognise anyone. You can normally guarantee to see Hoxton Mum at least; she’s always sitting in the window sipping a skinny soy something. The place was heaving, but it was filled with strangers, holiday-makers in wind-cheaters, all talking about how quaint and nice everything was.

I strolled around, looking at Lewes through their eyes. I guess the castle is quite cute. And there’s a Monsoon. And a brewery. Fair enough, it’s got everything you need for a mini-break.

Then I found myself at Catlins. He still had a couple of Montezumas eggs left. I sat in the Grange, frenziedly ripped off the cardboard and tinfoil, and spent a therapeutic afternoon shaking off the memories of my deprived childhood.


Beth Miller, 7th April 2010. Published in VivaLewes.com. Photo by Alex Leith

I know a change is gonna come, oh yes it will

For a town with a reputation for resisting development, there’s actually quite a lot of change going on in Lewes. I don’t mean the big attention-grabbing changes, like the railway land improvements or the knocking down of twitten walls, but those little everyday things which inspire nostalgia for a dreamy distant past, when the Harveys was warmer and old ladies cycled to communion, cricket bats under their arms.

Or in fact, the not so distant past. ‘It’s SO annoying’, said Aging Lad, describing how he had to park many metres from his destination. ‘I remember when you could drive down the Cliffe and park right outside the shops.’ Well yes, Lad, I wanted to say. Even you, with your addled brain should be able to recall last year. But all the others started chipping in with their own freshly minted nostalgia. ‘It’s such a shame having to buy school uniform on-line’, said Absent-Minded Mum, ‘do you remember that shop that used to sell it?’ Everyone looked thoughtful. ‘For goodness sake, people’, I cried, ‘Wards! It only closed a few months ago.’

‘I never bought uniform there, anyway’, said DJ Mama. ‘Not when you could get cheap knock-offs from, oh, what was that place called…?’ How quickly they forget. ‘I think you’re talking about Woolworths’, I said, thin-lipped. This, of course, precipitated the inevitable discussion about how much everyone missed the pick-and-mix and how they’d bought their first seven-inch single at Woolies, so I went away to bang my head against a wall for a brief yet reviving period. When I returned, they’d moved onto the next stage of the debate: how there’s no longer anywhere to buy plastic toys. ‘There used to be another toy shop, you know’, Pells Boy was saying, to incredulity all round. ‘No, really. Where Oakleys is now.’

I left them to it and walked down to Waitrose (‘remember when it was Safeway?’). I bumped into Cycle Girl and had a little moan to her about reminiscence-mongers, but she started doing it too. ‘It’s restaurants for me. I really miss Thackerays; and though I had a nice meal in Shanaz last night, I did hanker after that plastic foliage they used to have that dangled in your dhansak.’

She then moved on to bemoaning the demise of the guitar festival. I legged it before she could tell me about Richard Thompson’s last great set.

Then, in the chilled aisle of Waitrose, it happened to me. I asked an assistant where the little Innocent smoothie cartons had gone – smoothies being as essential to the well-running of a middle-class Lewes family as unleaded is to their Renault Espace. She informed me they were no longing stocking them. I swayed slightly in front of the cabinet, and found myself saying, ‘But I remember when you used to have them, just here, in four different flavours.’ It made me long for a nice sit-down and a cuppa in Artisan, but of course, it’s not there anymore.

Beth Miller, 3rd March 2010. Published in VivaLewes.com and in Viva Lewes magazine, April 2010.

I dropped into a shanty I used to frequent

When I was at school with Kanga she was as British as binge-drinking, but living in Australia the past 15 years has given her more than just a Queensland twang. Walking round Lewes with her is like stepping out with Crocodile Dundee. She really does say ‘G’day?’ to everyone, and she would doubtless raise her leather bush hat if she only had one. Luckily for me, and Lewes, she’s staying with mates in Brighton - see? ‘Mates’? It’s contagious? - and has popped over here for day trips, and decent pubs.

‘Ohmigard?’ she drawls, blowing the froth off a pint of Harveys. She never was a glass of white wine for the lady kind of person.

‘You seen the blasted hell-holes they call pubs over in Brighton?’

‘Rough, I expect’. I sip my white wine.

‘Hell no? Not rough like the watering holes in old Toowoomba?’ She laughs, a delicate sound that causes everyone in the Gardeners to whip round and fix her with a hard stare.

‘How ya going?’ she chirrups, and they turn quickly away, lest she engage them in conversation.

Born and Bred Boy sidles into the seat opposite us and stares askance at Kanga’s knee-length shorts. ‘What’s wrong with Brighton pubs then?’

‘They’re not pubs? They’re bars?’ Kanga gives his nose a playful flick with a beer-mat. ‘You know, I’ve been really looking forward to bending the elbow in some proper English pubs? Like the ones we went to at school?’

Boy regards me with respect.

‘At least this one’s dinky-di?’ She looks round the Gardeners approvingly.

‘Any idea?’ Boy mouths, and I shake my head.

Kanga drains her glass. ‘Let’s hit the turps, guys?’

Like the Queen interpreting the native lingo, I tell Boy, ‘She wants us to take her on a tour of authentic drinking establishments.’

‘Right ho’, says Boy, going all PG Wodehouse under the pressure.

There are roughly twenty pubs in Lewes, and as we walk, we discount those which Boy deems inauthentic (most of them), those which I deem too far (most of the rest), and those in which Kanga, in her shorts and rude t-shirt, might cause a stir (almost all). That leaves us with the Lewes Arms, although there is a slight contretemps caused by Kanga casually wandering into the front bar as though she were allowed there. However, we are soon sitting comfortably in the back room, watching a game of Toad in the Hole.

'Ah, this is great?’ she sighs, lovingly necking another pint. ‘This is what I dreamed of when I was sinking stubbies in old Fibber Magee’s?’

Boy, trying to turn the conversation away from Australia, begins to explain the rules of Toad. Kanga stands up, says, ‘I know? Was a dab hand at it when I visited the Harrietville Hotel Motel in Victoria? Only table in Oz? Who fancies another?’ and strides off to the bar.

‘What a woman?’, breathes Boy, and I don’t think he means it as a question.


Beth Miller, 26th January 2010. Published in VivaLewes.com

Raise up cups of Christmas cheer, I just need to catch my breath

How long can you put off the inevitable? It usually takes me most of December to make a list. Then I panic-buy everything from Amazon the day before Christmas Eve, paying six times over the odds for special next-day delivery. It’s a system of sorts, but I can see there are drawbacks.

So this year I tried Late Night Shopping. At first I thought it was marvellous. There was a fine atmosphere, the streets closed to traffic, lots of food stalls and whatnot. But gradually, I realised the reason I kept getting barged into was that other people had annoyingly decided to go shopping too.

This Lewes shopper is used to peace and quiet. I know that commercially speaking, empty-ish stores are a bad thing; but on the other hand, it is rather spiffing to be able to browse freely, then purchase what you want instantly without having to queue. It’s like internet shopping, except you can touch the goods.

Not so on Thursday night. Some places – you know who you are, Bright Ideas – were that mobbed, people just grabbed anything from anywhere, and waited hours to be served in a conga-length line. In this way I bought some extremely odd items very slowly, humming the queuing song all the while, the tune rusty on my lips from disuse. Then Grange Girl appeared, seized me firmly by the elbow and steered me into the street.

‘Late night shopping is not about buying things, you fool’, she chided.

Barcombe Bloke strolled by and said, ‘Harveys Shop has the best ones.’

‘Thanks for the heads up’, Grangey replied, and dragged me down the Cliffe to score mince pies. She explained that the entire point of the evening was to bag edible freebies. She was quite shameless, sticking her head into shops and barking, ‘Any food?’ If they said no, she slammed the door with a clang.

By the time we reached Harvey’s all the pies had been eaten, possibly by the terrifyingly perky Morris dancers outside. So we went back up School Hill, blagging crisps and sherry all the way. We popped into the Needlemakers for a bowl of soup – not free – just as a fashion show was starting. We pretended to be Kate Moss and Anna Wintour sitting in the front row, while some ladies paraded in Needlemaker styles. Though Kate and Anna probably don’t slurp mulligatawny and cram thick slices of buttered bread in their gobs. We lingered longer than we’d intended because there was a male model who looked just like Rupert Everett, and by the time we finally dragged ourselves away, all the shops were shut.

So I still haven’t made much headway with my list. The High Street’s an option again, of course, now everyone else has gone home, but it keeps raining, and the computer is giving me a come-hither look. Lewes or Amazon? I consult my list. I shrug on my coat. I take it off again. I reach for the mouse…

Beth Miller, 8th December 2009. Published in VivaLewes.com. Photo by Alex Leith

Can't get used to losing you no matter what I try to do

I don’t know what it is about me and Bonfire, but the phrase which springs to mind concerns my inability to arrange a jolly good session in Harvey’s brewery. Every year I am fully armed with all the programmes; yet every year I’m on Grange Road when the procession’s on Southover, or hanging about at Boots when everyone else is at the War Memorial. I feel the heat of the flames, but by the time I arrive, there’s nothing left but a smouldering torch in the gutter.

On the plus side, I’ve never taken a rookie in the face, and I do get an awfully good view. Of boarded up shop-fronts, admittedly.

This year, I hoped it would be different. We mustered promptly outside the Kings Head, and to the sound of the band and the lights of cars coming straight at us, we followed the Southover procession up Priory Street.

‘Going at quite a clip, aren’t they?’ puffed Grangey, as we broke into a run to try and keep up. It was like the London Marathon. When Thing One objected to being yanked along between us, her feet off the ground, we slowed down and watched the parade disappear round the corner.

On the way into town we got distracted by the guy selling light-up toys – at least this year we got the laser home before it broke, so it was well worth FOUR QUID - and could find no sign of Southover when we reached the Cliffe. Then we heard, far away, a series of splashes indicating they’d thrown the crosses in the Ouse without us. We looked unsuccessfully for another Society to chase, then milled aimlessly about, following groups of people at random. In this manner we were swept against our will, first into the Volunteer, then into a group of Japanese teenagers chucking rookies, and finally into someone’s house when they popped home to get another sweater.

Then a woman said confidently, ‘Down the Cliffe now’, and we turned to see a DFL-FB family, in matching Barbours. We followed closely. ‘Jonty reckoned this would be the best place’, she said, stationing her group outside Spectrum Opticians. ‘Five minutes till the next procession’.

She handed out sparklers, snacks and drinks to her brood. When the littlest child asked for the toilet, he was told, ‘Pop across the road to number 10, Gilly said it would be fine.’ Thing One watched in awe, clearly planning to swap mothers immediately.

Exactly as the woman had predicted, the parade went past. We got to see everything, for the first time ever. In the ensuing silence, we turned to our guru to see what we were going to do next.

‘Hot chocolate at number 17’, she said, consulting her list, ‘before relocating for the next procession.’

Off they went, to their lovely pit-stop, and then it was just us, standing in the cold.

‘Might as well go home’, said Grangey, ‘We’ll never find the damn thing by ourselves.’


Beth Miller, 10th November 2009. Published in VivaLewes.com. Photo by Carly Moorman

Tell 'em a hookah smoking caterpillar has given you the call

One hot day a couple of weeks ago, Born and Bred Boy was lounging in the Gardeners Arms appraising the Racing Post when he began to feel sleepy. All of a sudden, a white rabbit boinged past, staring intently at an iPhone and muttering, ‘I’m late for the 16.51’, as it dashed out the door.

Intrigued, Boy gave chase, and they both tumbled down a huge hole in the Cliffe roadworks. When Boy straightened himself out, he was astonished to find himself in London, on the Finchley Road. There was no sign of the rabbit. A strange fellow, who was perched on a bollard smoking a dodgy-looking pipe, said abruptly, ‘Who are YOU?’

When Boy politely replied, ‘I hardly know sir, just at present’, the man called out, ‘Good lord everyone, it’s another wretched UFL’.

A crowd of strangers thronged round poor Boy, who only managed to say, ‘Unidentified Flying what?’, before a florid matron holding a pig-like baby tutted scornfully, ‘Typical. They always have too much to say, these Lewes people.’

‘Too right’, added a ginger-haired man with a huge grin, who faded in and out of view. ‘What makes them think they can move up here and start complaining about our Primarks and our Tesco Metros?’

‘Before you can say no to a planning application, they’re letting off rookies and insisting they won’t be druv, whatever that is’, said an old man with a white beard, unaccountably doing a handstand.

‘But’, said Boy indignantly, ‘Just because people come from the same town doesn’t mean their views are identical.’

‘Have a nibble of this, mate’, said the pipe-smoking guy, rummaging in his bag. ‘See if it don’t make you feel better.’

Feeling discombobulated, Boy ate some of the mushrooms the guy handed him. At once, the scene dissolved and he was sat at a table in a pub, a bit like the Gardeners except women were allowed. A toff in a top hat immediately cried, ‘There’s no room!’

As Boy began to protest that there was in fact, plenty of room, a girl wearing bunny ears said lazily, ‘No room for any more Lewesians with your cerr-azy striped jumpers and your misguided persecution complexes.’ Her head then fell forward into a teapot.

To steady his nerves, Boy took a sip of an unspecified brown liquid which tasted rather like Harvey’s Best. Instantly he shrank to the size of a dormouse, at which point everyone in the pub started throwing darts at each other. Terrified, Boy cowered under the table, the noise of darts hammering against the wood like a machine gun, and wished he was back home.

When he opened his eyes he was back to his usual size and sitting in the real Gardeners, pint and paper where he’d left them, but there was still a persistent thudding noise. He went outside, and found the street filled with dozens of people dancing wildly, nails fitted to the soles of their boots.

Thank goodness – back to sanity.


Beth Miller, 14th July 2009. Picture by Suzie Fox. Published in VivaLewes.com and in Viva Lewes magazine, August 2009.

Your socks smell of angels, but your life smells of brie

'I've had a lovely time’ trilled Country Mouse, kissing me goodbye, ‘Lewes is such a wonderfully smelly town.’

Did the ill-bred little backwater rodent really consider that an acceptable parting shot?

‘Excuse ME!’ I cried, yanking her back into the house by the belt of her Country Casuals mackintosh and interrogating her with an angle-poise lamp. ‘Whaddya mean, smelly?’

She broke down instantly. ‘I don’t mean anything bad’, she squeaked. ‘It’s all the fascinating scents as you walk round – it’s not sanitised, like Milton Keynes.’

I hurled her, whimpering, onto the path and slammed the door. A whiffy town, eh? It was time for some scientific research.

‘Remind me what we’re doing’, whined Born and Bred Boy, standing unhappily outside Streaks Ahead, a black scarf tied round his eyes. ‘When you said something about blindfolds and smells I had a different image all together.’

I explained again. ‘We’re going to walk around the town centre’, I said, putting on my lab-coat and safety glasses, ‘to see if you can identify where we are by nose alone.’

We began with a minor tripping incident, but as Boy limped, bleeding, past Fur, Feather ‘N’ Fins he reared like a greyhound sniffing a rabbit.

‘It’s that pet shop with all the F’s’ he cried triumphantly. We stopped a moment, and breathed in deeply. As a child I used to inhale at the threshold of our local pet shop for hours. There wasn’t much to do in the 1970s.

A little further, Boy yelped, ‘May’s!’ adding superfluously, ‘Eau de hippy’s bedroom’.

Minutes later, and his eyeless face was smiling. ‘The Best! Smell! Ever!’ he exclaimed. It was the unsurpassable perfume of hops brewing at Harveys. Boy overdid the sniffing, hyperventilated, and had to be assisted with a paper bag.

Is Lewes not fragrant? I was starting to think we were truly blessed, when Boy grabbed my arm.‘Oh’, he said anxiously, ‘If we’ve gone past Harveys, we must be about to… Aaaargh!’ He began weaving about, hands cupped over his mouth, bumping into benches. Like Jonathan Ross, that weird cheesy fragrance from Forfars divides people. Some, like Boy, generally avoid it with a circuitous route via the carpark. Yet my dear Man of the House claims it’s so yummy he wants to rush in and fill his pockets with buns.

As we moved up the hill, Born and Bred Boy got into his stride. Dry-cleaners (interesting chemicals); Flint (bizarre perfume); several estate agents (fear). I promised Boy there was just one more, and knew he’d got it when he clutched his throat and fell to his knees.

'School dinner cabbage', he gasped, 'warmed up and piped through extractor fan for all to share.’ I ticked the White Hart off my list, and treated Boy to a good long inhalation of the coffee aroma outside Nero’s.

Later, I rang Country Mouse to apologise. Lewes is indeed a heady town. More so, possibly, than Milton Keynes. But there’s nothing wrong with that.

Beth Miller, 15th April 2009. Published in VivaLewes.com. Photo by Alex Leith