Warning - contains the word 'arse'

I've always been interested in words. So much so that, a few years ago, whenever I encountered a new word, I enquired as to its meaning, which I then carefully wrote down in a note book next to the word itself. I carried on doing this for some considerable time, and eventually told a friend what I had done. This friend pointed out that what I had created was a dictionary, and said it'd already been done.

Language is a fascinating thing; I love the way my own language has developed over the centuries, from Anglo Saxon, through Norman French additions to Middle and then modern English. It is the language of Beowulf and Chaucer; of Shakespeare and Betjeman; and of your humble blognator. I'm afraid I do have a bit of a thing about using language properly, albeit I accept that it is constantly evolving. And it does amuse me when people mess things up. Take proverbs, for example. Last week on the radio, I heard the presenter describe something as 'a pain in the proverbial'. I assume she wanted to say 'a pain in the backside' or, more vulgarly, 'a pain in the arse'. Now, this confused me. During the course of my life I've encountered a good many proverbs. 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush' and 'an apple a day keeps the doctor away', to name but two. But I have racked my brains to recall any proverb that contains the word 'arse'. 'A friend in need is a pain in the arse'? No. 'Too many cooks spoil the arse'? No in italics. Perhaps what the presenter should really have said was 'a pain in the metaphorical arse,' where the arse symbolically represents the object or person that is causing the problem. Equally, she could have indicated that the given something was 'Figuratively speaking, a pain in the arse.'

Metaphors and similes are figures of speech that seem to cause more than a few problems. There is a tendancy to confuse the two. But I can explain the difference very clearly, here and now, with a couple of examples. 'You are a pain in the arse' (metaphor); 'You're like a pain in the arse' (simile). How hard is that? However, my own view is that it is only proper to describe something as 'a pain in the arse' when it is, in a literal sense, a pain in the arse. But it is, perhaps, unfair of me to restrict my fellow human beings to the use of the phrase only when gripped by chronic piles, or some terible fistula. So I am not going to place upon them any such restriction. Instead, being of a generous disposition, I shall explain the difference between the literal and the figurative. It pains me to hear someone say 'I literally laughed my arse off,' when such a feat is, of course, impossible. When I hear it I always have the urge to say, 'but I see you've had it stitched back on again.' If they must use this particular part of the anatomy to indicate the effect upon them of a witty remark, then do not use 'literally', which literally means 'word for word'. Instead, it would be more proper to say, 'I laughed so much that it felt like my arse would fall off'. Or maybe even, 'Were it possible for my arse to detatch itself from the rest of my body in response to the paroxysms of laughter that this particular incident generated, I feel almost certain that it would have done so.'

So there you have it. Just be careful that you don't confuse any of my arse-related ramblings with Seigneurie d'Arse, which I'm told is a nice little wine from the Fitou region.

Pieless in Lewes

Every now and again it's good to get out and do something. So on Saturday Mrs H and I decided to go for a wander round Lewes, the county town, and have lunch in one of the many eateries that are dotted along the high street.

I like Lewes, but there's something about the place that I can't quite put my finger on. The late Keith Waterhouse said that Brighton 'looks like a town that is helping the police with its enquiries.' But Lewes, on the other hand, looks like a town that is best mates with the Chief Constable, and tells you that you'd do well to remember it, as you both try to nab the last parking space behind Waitrose. Most of its inhabitants look quite well heeled and have that air of self-assurance that I've never been able to carry off. Even the down and outs are posh. A ruddy-faced street drinker strummed a guitar as he sweetly sang 'you killed ma wee brother ya bastard' or something very like it to passers-by; in any lesser town the same words would have been screamed out in the middle of the night outside a block of flats, and without the benefit of a classical twelve string. But I digress.

Mrs H and I negotiated the doors of our chosen eatery and were greeted by a shaven-headed whirling dervish, masquerading as a waiter, who handed us a couple of menus and promised to seat us soon. Initially, the menus could not be read as our glasses had steamed up. But we needn't have worried. The 'soon' turned out to be a few minutes as the dervish multitasked his way round the restaurant, clearing tables, laying tables, collecting monies and delivering meals. But eventually we were deposited at a table for two in the middle of the restaurant and left to our own devices to study the menu now that the fog had cleared from our spectacles.Eventually Mrs H settled upon a little smoked cod and haddock dish with chunky chips, whilst I decided to tackle the steak and kidney pie. Off went the dervish to fulfil the order, which gave us the leisure to examine our fellow diners. Behind us was a husband and wife with two children; one a girl around three years old, and her little brother, probably no more than nine months old. They had clearly been waiting some time for their food, as the girl was in the process of demolishing two slices of bread, which she laboriously buttered with a knife that was almost as big as herself. And, after every mouthful of bread, the child wept copious tears for no readily apparent reason. Her little brother, in contrast, was rather quiet and solemn, dressed as he was like a mini country gentleman, with a tiny tattersall shirt and a grey waistcoat. I expected to see a gold dummy on a watch chain tucked into his waistcoat pocket, but disappointingly this was absent.

After waiting for more than half an hour for our food, I enquired of the dervish as to its whereabouts. Off he sped, and returned five minutes later with the news that my pie had been dropped on the kitchen floor just prior to its delivery to our table. This piece of information I found very hard to believe, for the following reason. I noticed that someone in the kitchen would ring a tiny bell when food was ready to be collected. One of the junior dervishes would then dash into the kitchen, emerging with said food. And, whilst I had heard many tiny tinkles during the preceding few minutes, I had not heard the tumultous crash of a steak and kidney pie, encased in a ceramic pie dish, hitting the kitchen floor. I suspected that they had simply forgotten us and our order, and had concocted the dropped pie story to cover their tracks. Deciding not to cause a fuss, I let it pass, and settled down to my dish of complimentary olives to await pie number two.

A few minutes later, a young female under-dervish arrived.

'I'm really sorry, ladies,' she said. 'I mean, sir and lady,' she added, having noticed that I was, in fact, a man.

'It's the hair, isn't it?' I said.

She blanked this rejoinder. 'I'm really sorry, but it was me who dropped your pie.' I gave her a half smile in an effort to show that I felt her discomfort. They had obviously drawn straws in the kitchen, and this young lady, having picked the short one, had been selected to confirm the story concocted by the senior dervish.

'Your food will be here in a couple of minutes.'

Our food arrived in a couple of minutes and, I have to say, it was well worth the wait. But what was even better than the food was the middle aged, middle class couple on the next table, who were clearly having a blazing row about where they were going to spend their next holiday. However, it was conducted in a very quiet and civilised manner, like two people who barely knew each other politely conversing about the weather. She wanted to go to Aspen in Colorado. He wanted to go to Europe. What have you got against Aspen, she asked. The length of the journey, he said. You didn't think Bermuda was too far away when you wanted to go there, did you, she asked. Well, then we'll go to Aspen, he said. I really want to go to Aspen. What's the snow like at this time of year, he asked. I have no idea, she said...

We paid the bill and departed before things turned really nasty and they started dipping their fingers in the carafe and flicking water over each other.

Incidentally, I can thoroughly recommend the restaurant to you. Sorry, did I not tell you what it was called? Oh dear...

Hoarder! Hoarder!

In the course of my life I've had six house moves. This averages out to a move about every nine years. Most of them happened when I was quite young, so I didn't get fully involved in the trauma that is The House Move. But my most recent one was just under three years ago, when I upped sticks from London to the comparative peace of East Sussex. And I discovered that a move gives you the opportunity to go through your possessions and, hopefully, have something of a clearout, so that you start life in your new house with rather less clutter. What a pity I failed to use the opportunity. As a consequence, I am now, three years later, still making weekly trips to the charity shops and the Council tip, getting rid of the stuff that, had I disposed of it earlier, would have saved me a good few pounds by enabling me to hire a smaller removal van.

But I do struggle to give things up. Ask Mrs H and she'll quite happily tell you. I have more books than you can shake a stick at. I have a shed full of odds and ends that I've been collecting for years, in the belief that they might one day 'come in handy'. And drawers full of fossils, miscellaneous pebbles picked up from beaches, old pens, bits of electrical equipment and beer mats that I can't bear to throw away. The declutter experts advocate getting rid of something if you haven't used it for a given period - six months, for example - but I find it nigh on impossible to ditch things that I haven't used for half a lifetime. Or more. I have tried to declutter; heaven knows I've tried; but I invariably get stuck after the first item. And that first item is usually a bus ticket or a till receipt.

So, I'm a rubbish declutter-er. But just lately I've begun to wonder whether I shouldn't have hung on to all of it. For in the North Laine area of Brighton there is a large emporium called Snooper's Paradise, wherein a positive gallimaufry of antiques, curios and collectibles are for sale. Walking round Snooper's Paradise is like taking a stroll through your life. A bit like a near-death experience, only in slow motion. I was in said emporium a couple of weeks ago, and saw a good many items from my past. I used to store my fossils and sea shells in old Havana cigar boxes; the shop had them for six pounds each. My father cleverly rigged up an internal telephone system in my bedroom so my mother could phone me when dinner was on the table. Those same telephones, long since gone to landfill, are now worth around £100. And old bits of military clothing which I picked up for pennies at jumble sales in the sixties when such things were in favour (blame the Sergeant Pepper album) now cost as much as a new suit.

So, dear reader, I've come to a decision. I shall call a halt to any kind of de-cluttering. I wil start to fill my house with piles of newspapers, empty bottles and cans, and my garden with redundant bits of furniture. And I shall retain every book, CD, electronic gadget, empty takeaway carton and any other object that passes my way, on the off-chance that it may, at some point in the distant future, be worth a few bob. OK; if you visit me you might have to wipe your feet when you leave the house; but on the plus side, I think I'll soon have my very own documentary series on TV.

New Year?

I may be mistaken, but it seems only twelve months ago that it was last a new year. And the older I get, the more I wonder what there is to celebrate about a new year, which is, after all, just a simple change from the end of one month to the start of another. Apparently, around two million turned out to watch the fireworks in Sydney, Australia, whilst a rather more select 250,000 attended the London pyrotechnics. I, as always, watched from the comfort of my living room. With a cup of tea and a biscuit.

What is it about the turn of the year that obsesses us, both individually and collectively? TV stations and the printed news media give us their Reviews of the Year, often focusing on a list of those luminaries who died. Magazines tell us how to be A New You, offering tips on resolutions, diets, giving up smoking and the like. All of which beg the question...if you want to turn your life around, why wait for some arbitrary date to do it? If it's October and you're thinking of packing up smoking, why wait until January? If for no other reason, it'd save you a bit of money. If you have a twenty-a-day habit, stopping smoking in October could see you saving around five hundred pounds.

I've decided that, if I do have to celebrate the new year, I'm going to do it on the 25th of March. At the risk of being a bore, I've previously mentioned that, until 1751, the new year started on that date, otherwise known as Lady Day. Falling as it does exactly nine months before Christmas Day, it's the day when the Archangel Gabriel is said to have informed the Virgin Mary that she was to bear Jesus. And this year (or next year, to be pedantic), it falls on the Sunday when the clock is advanced by one hour, giving us 12 hours, 30 minutes and 53 seconds of daylight during which to celebrate. Contrast this with the measly 8 hours, 1 minute and 47 seconds vouchsafed to us on the first of January.

Dare to be different. This March the 25th, wish all your friends and neighbours a Happy New Year. And rather than giving something up, take something up. Clear your clutter. Construct model aircraft from kits. Learn Anglo Saxon. Or even start morris dancing...

Not painting the banisters

Someone recently asked me if I live on the Forth Bridge. I think the question was prompted by the fact that I always seem to be decorating. Dear friends, I can state quite categorically that I do not inhabit a Scottish railway bridge, but rather an Edwardian house by the Sussex shore that is in need of a lick of paint here and there. And I'm not always decorating. On some days - today, for instance - the sun was shining, so I went for a brief trundle round our local shops.

There often seems to be a kind of contest going on between the shops in Seaford. Earlier in the year many of the traders had circus-themed windows, featuring clowns and the like, and I suspect there must be a prize for the best dressed shop. At the moment, their theme is Hallowe'en, so pumpkins, skeletons, ghoulies (not a misspelling) and ghosties are much in evidence. But I was rather disappointed to see that our local funeral directors seem not to have joined in, however. As I mused upon the kind of display they might usefully have created, I bumped into a couple of programme sellers from the Seaford Bonfire Society.

Today marks the first procession of the newly reformed Seaford Bonfire Society. At around 7pm a motley group of pirates, smugglers (or Seaford Shags) and wreckers will , for the first time since 1977, march with blazing torches from their headquarters, through the town centre and on to a field close to Martello Tower no.74, where there will be a bonfire and firework display. There is a great tradition of bonfire societies in Sussex, most of which march to celebrate the anniversary of the discovery of the 'Popish Plot'. It is our avowed intention to watch the celebrations tonight, and perhaps partake of a few glasses of ale thereafter. After purchasing my programme and exchanging pleasantries with a medieval lady and a female smuggler with a Jack Russell terrier, I met Mrs H and we betook ourselves to a salvage yard somewhere near Heathfield.

Salvage yards are fascinating places; full of stuff that the likes of you and I (or probably more likely, our parents) ripped out and threw away years ago. As a child of the sixties, I remember the television programmes featuring Barry Bucknell, the first TV DIY star. Mr Bucknell showed his viewers how to cover up an ugly Victorian panelled door with hardboard, and how to rip out those dreadful old fireplaces and install a nice electric fire their place. And now we're spending hundreds or even thousands of pounds to have them put back in. We were quite fortunate; in one of our spare bedrooms, behind a sheet of hardboard, we found an intact Edwardian cast iron fireplace, complete with grate, tiles, and the remains of the last fire.

Anyway, this salvage yard was a veritable treasure trove of old fireplaces, butler sinks, ancient doors, massive oak beams and reclaimed floorboards. One of the most interesting items was what appeared to be the cast iron columns that would originally have held up the glass canopy of a Victorian railway station. We were looking for a fender - one of those metal contraptions that fits around a hearthstone - but sadly none of the size we required were to be found today. There are plenty more salvage yards to go round, so that will be a task for another sunny day when I'm not giving the banisters yet another coat of paint.

After our foray into the world of salvage and reclamation, we drove home via the coast road through Eastbourne. The early autumn sunshine sparkled on the sea as trippers sauntered along the promenade or took the air on the pier, pensioners dozed in the sun-rooms of the seafront hotels, and ice cream sellers made the most of the unexpected warm weather. I'm told that these decent temperatures will be with us for a few days yet. It'll help the paint on my banisters to dry a little faster.

Beer, bells and badges

I like beer. And I like living in Sussex. So I suppose I should regard myself as exceptionally fortunate that I live in the county that is home to a beer to which I am particularly partial. I speak, of course, of Harveys beer. Harveys was founded in 1790 and is still, I'm pleased to say, going strong. And it was to Harveys brewery in Lewes that I and my morris dancing compatriots made our way last Saturday to dance in the Old Ale.

Dancing in the Old Ale has become an annual tradition, and this was my second visit to the festival, having been dancing with Long Man for just under two years. Long Man and other morris sides entertain the crowds, Harveys (by whom we are sponsored, incidentally) lay on a plenteous supply of Old Ale and a buffet lunch, and there is more dancing and general merriment in the afternoon.

After our first dance, I was called forward by the foreman (our 'dance master', if you will), who announced to the assembled public that it was time to present me with my badges. Our Squire (the head of the side) shook my hand and awarded me the much-coveted badges. For a morris dancer, being given your badges is a significant event. It means that the side's 'officers' believe you have reached a satisfactory enough standard to be awarded full membership. So, for the first time on Saturday, I was able to dance with my badges. And The Hat!

Of course, this is just the beginning. I still have a long journey to be anywhere near as good as the long standing members of the side, and there are still many dances from various traditions to learn and retain. But I am extraordinarily proud to be a member of the side and to wear its badges.

Oh, and the beer was pretty good on Saturday, too.

Oh, the Huge Manatee.

Food shopping. I've never quite got used to food shopping. I know it needs to be done and, since we got rid of the manservant, we have to do it ourselves. I'm afraid I find it rather a grim ritual, so, rather unfairly, I tend to leave Mrs. H. to do the useful stuff, like decide on what veg we're having, checking the date on the milk, etc. whilst I eye up the unusual cheeses and cooked meats, and generally get in everyone's way. And it's a curious thing, but I do get in everyone's way. All the time. Because it seems, dear bloggy friend, that wherever I stand whilst I'm waiting for Mrs. H. to determine the appropriate quantity and persuasion of mushrooms that will find their way into the trolley, I'm blocking someone's view of something, or preventing someone from getting to their favourite supermarket item. Last Friday I thought I had the problem licked. I parked myself in front of the Quinoa, whatever the heck that is, and congratulated myself with the thought that no-one was likely to bother me. I could, I thought, stand here, on and off, for days and days. And yet, dear blognator/blognatrix, within a minute a supermarket employee was saying, 'Excuse me, but can I just get to that Quinoa, please?' Next week I'm going to stand in front of the pickled dugong slices. Oh, the Huge Manatee!

But hang on. Perhaps I'm missing a trick here. Maybe I could offer my services to supermarkets to help them shift unpopular items. Let's say they've overbought on lemon puff biscuits. They call me. I stand in front of the lemon puffs for a couple of hours. Sales go through the roof. I'll draft the letter tomorrow.

Although I'm not that partial to the weekly shop, I always enjoy the drive back from the supermarket. As you climb the steep hill just beyond Old Town the last few houses at the edge of Eastbourne are left behind, and then, suddenly, you're on top of the Downs. To your right the rolling, whale-backed hills with views far to the north of the county; to your left, flocks of newly-shorn sheep biting the grass against a backdrop of the shimmering sea and, in the distance, the Belle Tout Lighthouse, famously moved 57 feet back from the edge of a cliff in 1999 to prevent it tumbling into the English Channel. The road rolls eastward through East Dean, Friston, Exceat (with its little bridge over the Cuckmere River) until at last you reach Seaford. And one such recent journey was more fun than usual as a result of something I'd heard on the radio.

The Radio Sussex presenter was talking to a guest; an animal behaviourist, I fancy it was, with specialist knowledge of dogs. And the good people of Sussex were phoning in with their questions and queries about their own animals. One very pleasant-sounding lady was the proud owner of an animal that was a cross between a West Highland Terrier and a poodle - a "Westie-Poo", apparently. This got me thinking. How many other interesting-sounding crossbreeds could I come up with? A Collie crossed with a Lhasa Apso and, hey presto, you have a Collapso. Or a Lhollie. A Pug and a German Shepherd would be a Pugger. And what you'd get if you crossed a Bulldog with a Shih Tzu is nobody's business...

I rather like local radio. In recent years it's suffered at the hands of the likes of Steve Coogan via his portrayal of the tacky, oleaginous Alan Partridge ('Who is the best Lord? Lord of the Flies, Lord of the Rings or Lord of the Dance?'). But on the whole, I like the fact that the presenters are rather more laid back than their counterparts on national radio, or indeed those who work on London stations. Comments and opinions that would result in your call being terminated within seconds on Radio London or LBC are aired on local radio, untramelled by the 'dump' button so often used to deal with callers to stations in the capital. And how refreshing it is to hear news bulletins about truly 'local' issues: the South Downs National Park, the effect of the recession on the rural economy, and items concerning the day to day minutiae of country life. In London, the stations appeared to be incapable of covering 'local' news; they seemed to be obsessed with international issues, government, and the latest edicts from the Mayor of London. And although local radio has its fair share of 'hang 'em and flog 'em' correspondents, the anger and bitterness one encounters on the Big City media seems to be absent. Ok, so they might question immigration policy, disagree with the mores of a percentage of Brighton's community, and spit feathers if a neighbour plays Radio 3 on their wireless after four in the afternoon, but you still feel you'd probably quite like them if you met them propping up the bar in a local pub, or out rambling with their Westie-poos on a Sunday morning...

Sunday morning just gone saw us taking a slow walk along the beach, soaking up the warm July sun and watching a procession of small sailing vessels tripping lightly across the shimmering sea. To our left, the chalky heights of Seaford Head with its colony of wheeling, squalling kittiwakes. To our right, the broad sweep of Seaford Bay, with the port of Newhaven, nestling in the shadow of the Victorian fort, its defensive guns forever silent. And, as the sound of children playing at the water's edge mingled with the lap of the sea and the distant bells of St Leonard's Church, I thanked my lucky stars, for the umpteenth time, that I live in this place.