Ich bin ein Morgenmuffel

I can only construct one sentence in German that makes any sense. This is disappointing as I studied German for two years at school, my father has been married for over 30 years to Reinhild and I had a very fulfilling relationship with a beautiful, intelligent and compassionate woman from a small town in Germany.

“Ich bin ein Morgenmuffel”

Which translated into English means?

“I am a grumpy, sullen and cantankerous person in the morning”

Anyone who has the dubious pleasure of sharing a bed with me will know that I am certainly not a Morgenmuffel.  Even if I have stayed up until 2 am and drunk more than my fair share 7 year old Havana rum to celebrate my arrival in Wanganui from Heathrow via LA, I will wake up before 6.00am feeling fully energised.  I will bang around the kitchen making coffee, turn on the light in order to search for a cigarette and suggest to my partner that we should drive to the nearest mountain, climb it, have an intense conversation with some random stranger, then find a local vineyard and sample a at least five different types of wine before having a relaxing breakfast of eggs Florentine at The Purple Carrot Café.

The only reason that I studied German was because my mother believed that one would go a long way in life if you could speak more than one language.  She badgered the school into allowing me to join the German class. 

Normally the ‘O’ Level German class at Kings School Pontefract was reserved for those who had shown an aptitude for French. In French, I could tell people how old I was, count to twelve and inform them that my hobbies included rugby, tennis and the weekend.  They didn’t, but it is not difficult to translate those words from French to English.  I was no French scholar and completely out of my depth.

On about week three I was introduced to the word Geschwindigkeitsbegrenzung.  At the time I had slight impediment an struggled  to correctly pronounce words of more than two sylabals in my mother tongye.  Whilst, the rest of the class were learning the dative of relatively straghtforward German irregular verbs, I sat at the back of the class looking at pictures of the Muller family shopping in Essen, catching the train to Wuppertal, or holidaying on some island in the North Sea.  I like to think that in the 400 year history of my school, I was the only person to achieve grade U at German O Level.

I’ve been fortunate enough to be the first man in the world to watch the sunrise on Valentines Day on a deserted beach in NZ, whilst in the company of a sexy stunning Kiwi farmgirl., to be taught the basics of the tango in a poorly Beunes Aries night club by a dark and mystereous Argentinian womam, and to witness the sun setting behind the Taj Mahal, whilst in the company of Miss Liverpool University 1981, who was looking for a way out of our relationship

However

I can think of nothing better than slowly waking up next to a German woman (who is neither a goat nor a cow), being presented with a simple breakfast of freshly baked bread and cold Landjäger before taking a leisurely stroll to the German National Museum of Clock making. 

And I am not being ironic as I love being in Germany.

PS I also love the German word ohrwurm and today’s ohrwurm is unfortunately

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8smO4VS9134

PPS I apologise to anyone in Germany if in the title of this post, if I have used the feminine plural dative rather than the masculine singular present.

Hana, Kip and Brian

Please click on the link below

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dp-9C3FDaRY

That instruction was primarily aimed at my father Brian Lewis, who I know will be reading this, but hasn’t yet quite fully understood the potential of modern technology.

After reading my piece on suicidal thoughts he sent me an email in which he states

“I am aware of the problems and understand them as far as it is possible to understand them. I have never thought that your life was other than valuable for although you are one of my own and therefore prejudiced, totally admirable”.

And he later writes

“You are a natural teacher and your job is to work with the poor in spirit and the dispossessed for not to do so is a waste”

My father is a wise and eloquent man who has devoted much of his life to putting in the thought, effort and encouragement to help others make a close inspection of that beautiful fresco high up in an Italian church.  He will also provide the tools to help you to see this more clearly.  The aspect of his work that I admire the most is that he will often do this in a clever and imaginative way.

There are thousands of people from communities such as: Rothwell, Pontefract, Birmingham, Gujarat and beyond, who have benefited from spending time with Brian Lewis.

http://www.pontefractpress.com/

I recently read that

“Nobody gets to Santiago without the help of some other”

That can include: providing a much needed back rub, offering words of encouragement to a tired, injured pilgrim as they struggle to make the final 50 metres to the summit of O Cebriero, or buying a lunch for a financially challenged traveller.

Furthermore, I have yet to meet somebody on the way who has not in someway assisted another traveller to reach Santiago.

I decided to undertake this journey to Santiago just over a month ago.  In a relatively short period I have received: messages of love and support from friends and strangers, much needed financial assistance, the inspiration to write a blog, constructive criticism on my writing, recommendations of books, advice on blisters and much more.

I have not yet stepped out of my front door and I could spend much of the next hour individually listing those people who have so far helped me and I would still omit somebody. 

It feels good to be Hana, to be the beneficiary of an act of love and it also feels good to be Kip to provide the way and means to help another person get to a beautiful place that appears to be impossible to get to.

Dear Mr Cameron

As I walked to the supermarket this morning, I passed a poster which stated “Dear Mr Cameron, You are making a big mistake with the NHS.  Please listen to us.”  I found this inspiring

I returned home and wrote a letter to my family doctor, thanking him for the service he has provided over the past few years.  In this version of the letter I’ve expanded a little on what I did state in the letter.

Dear Doctor

I want to thank you for the support that you have given me over the past few years.  You have always given me the time to express my thoughts and feelings about my condition and you have always listened to me.  You managed to persuade me to take medication, not by adopting an attitude of ‘doctors knows best’ but by presenting the facts to me and allowing me to make my own choices.  When you referred me to a psychiatrist and for counselling you helped me understand the process and you discussed with me the outcomes of the assessment . 

I remember you advising me to go put of the surgery and turn right and take a walk along the Rivlin Valley.  On that occasion, I chose to turn left and return home to sit and stare at the bedroom wall for the remainder of the day.  However, a week or so later I did make the decision to walk towards Mallin Bridge and later this week I will walk 800km towards Santiago.

My mother was a Family Doctor who was very proud to work within in National Health Service in general practice in Pontefract.  She was principled woman, who refused to sit on the fence and was well known for speaking her mind in order to get best care for her patients.  There were many a consultant at Pinderfields and St James who had messages left at their golf clubs, questioning what they were doing with regard to her patients.  I was brought up to question authority, but I trust your judgement and I won’t do that.  My mother is no longer here, but I am sure she would have approved of the way you have met my medical needs.

Thank you 

Best wishes
John

I know a bit about the way health care is delivered in the US, and I know enough to be certain that you would not benefit from  the quality of service that I recieved within the NHS.

"I'll Even Shave Your Pubes for a Tenner"

If you are ever in Sheffield and require a haircut, I suggest that you pay a visit to get the tram to Hillsborough, and go to Dave’s Barber’s Shop on Holme Lane.  It appears to be traditional barber’s shop in many ways with a shop front that hasn’t changed since about 1969, black and white lino flooring and no sign of any hair care products.

There are copies of The Sun and Daily Mail, but I understand from Chris the barber that these are obligatory reading in barber’s shops and if he was to buy The Guardian, many of his customers would head off to the unisex salon on Middlewood Road.

I’ve sat and watched Chris cut hair and he is able to engage in conversation about the weather, holidays and football in a friendly and knowledgable manner.  Furthermore he is able to remove unwanted middle aged aural hair in a way that makes the customer feel comfortable

“I can give you a shave; in fact I’ll even shave your pubes for a tenner”

And no offence appeared to be taken when I suggested

“and he will give you a blowjob for fifteen”

I like Dave’s because I get good quality haircut for £5.  However the reason I love going there is because he chooses to play BBC Radio 6 on the wireless and during the course of a haircut we discuss music in a way that you don’t expect.  Not only do I get a haircut, I get an album review.

I met Dean in there today.  I told Dean about my walk to Santiago and he told me about his hitch hiking road trip to the outskirts of Belgrade, where he got arrested for vagrancy and decided to abandon his journey to Turkey and returned to France.  I like the company who can tell a good story.

As I was leaving, Dean informed me that “Gentlemen exchange cards” and presented me with his card.  I am no gentleman and I have no card, but I did promise to email him a link to the blog.  Dean is a Dry Stone Waller who is Peak Park approved.  I’ve got no idea how competent he is at Dry Stone Walling, but on the basis of the conversation we had this afternoon, I would be happy to recommend him

If you go to a salon on West Street you may get a marginally better haircut and be presented with some very expensive hair care products, but you will pay at least five times as much and the quality of conversation will be infinitely less enjoyable.

Restoring the Balance

 

Last week I went on walk two of my children Patrick and Holly.  We walked from Sheffield Railway Station to the Rutland Arms.  Those of you that know Sheffield will possibly know that isn’t a great distance.  And for those of you who have not yet had the pleasure of visiting this wonderful city can log into Google Maps and discover that is a journey of 498 feet.

On the way we passed the Showcase Cinema, where on Orange Wednesdays Holly and myself often go and watch a film.  She no longer wishes to introduce me to the current offering from America’s latest teenage matinee idol, but wishes to see foreign language adaptations of the lesser known works of Shakespeare. This isn’t because particularly pretentious as she is one of the most down to earth women I know and loves engaging in the conversation this inspires.

One of the things that I love about Sheffield is that somebody at the local council decided that it was a good thing to put poetry on the sides of buildings.  You can walk round a corner and be introduced to a poem by the likes of Harold Pinter, Jarvis Cocker or Andrew Motion.  I would prefer my council invest in poetry than enter into some twinning venture with a small town in Italian Tyrol.  I don’t like Andrew Motion’s poem on the side of Sheffield Hallam University, but I’m pleased someone decided to put it there.

Holly reminds Patrick “You could have gone to that University, if you had of got the required grades”.  He missed out on a place at Hallam, but gained a place at Leeds.  Holly accepted a place at the University of Sheffield to study Sociology.  I’m not sure about the quality pf the teaching of Sociology at Sheffield University or Geography at Hallam, but I know that her decision to study in sunny Yorkshire was influenced by a desire to be close to me.

Over the past few years I have not been a model father and I have chosen to wallow for long periods in self pity, rather than spend time with my children.  I am very fortunate in that they have chosen to present me with the opportunity to spend time with them.

We chose The Rutland because it is an Old Man’s pub that sells a wide selection of beer, comfortable seats, and is conducive to having a conversation. Rather than a pub on West Street, that sells one brand of lager and a selection of cheap cooking vodkas, where it is impossible to find a seat and you struggle to hear anything other than some loud crap music. 

I’ve recently spent a great deal of time with Holly and she impresses me in so many ways.  She is energetic, clever and witty, understanding and empathy come very easily to her, she rarely sits on the fence and her arguments are often intellegently well thought out, and she can prepare a risotto in a way that is well beyond her years,.

Patrick recently presented me with a bowl of pasta over which he had poured a tin Sainbury's pasta sauce and regarded it as haute cuisine.  In the Rutland, it was Patrick that surprised me.  He was confident and spoke with authority on number of topics, he demonstrated that he had got principals in refusing to take up the opportunity of working at Olympic Games, and displayed a kind gentile nature.

At the end of the evening I walked Patrick to the railway station, I gave him a big hug like I’ve never hugged him before and told him “today I recognised that you are no longer a boy but a clever, kind, gentle, thoughtful, handsome young man and I love you”

Compared to an 800km stroll across Spain we undertook a very short walk along the streets of Sheffield, but we managed to travel such long way.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4r_HWWQyCs

A Wonderful Sunrise over Stannage Edge

I am not unaccustomed to lying awake at 4.00am and being swamped with serious thoughts of taking my own live.  Sleep doesn’t come easy and my thoughts become sharply focussed on the failure to develop a career, financial worries, the fear of rejection, awareness of my declining physical health and feeling all alone. I desperately seek relief from this pain.  Relief is a feeling and you have to be alive to feel it.

I want to reassure anyone who knows me and is inclined to dash to the phone to call me, that the fact that I am prepared to write openly about this, indicates that I am not about to throw myself in front of the next express to St Pancras.  I understand that it is a fact the people most determined to take their own lives will not speak of it to anyone.

I remember a group of people sitting around my kitchen table and gossiping about the bizarre behaviour of one of their friends.  He had done something foolish, had possibly felt ashamed and had withdrawn socially.  A few weeks later, he took his own life.  I was in a pub and some of the people who had earlier sat at my table joined me.  A woman who was clearly very upset stated that she had wished the unfortunate young man had chosen to speak to her before taking his own live.

I’ve lay awake at night and considered suicide.  It’s not easy to pick up the phone and call someone.  You don’t want to appear weak or flawed and you don’t want your call to be perceived as a pathetic attempt at attention seeking.  You want just want somebody to understand and acknowledge that you have more pain than you can cope with right now.

Some people react badly to suicidal feelings, possibly because they feel angry, frightened, ashamed, confused or guilty.  I have received such a phone call and I know it is not a comfortable place to be.

My strategy for dealing with suicidal thoughts is to get outside and to walk.  For me, it is harder to contemplate throwing myself off nearest tower block when I am watching a wonderful sunrise over Stannage Edge rather staring blankly at my bedroom wall.   

Dos Vagabundos

In the past 40 years, I’ve only ever sang once in public and that was to audience of one.

When I was seven, Mrs Lehman announced to the whole class that “I have been teaching for almost 40 years, and John Lewis has the worst singing voice that I’ve ever heard”.  She suggested to me that it would be better if I mimed whilst the rest of the class sang. We Plough the Fields and Scatter.

And I did as she suggested.

Furthermore, I’ve carried on through life often mouthing the words but not singing with the choir, sitting on the fence and not expressing how I feel. 

 I recall having dinner with a woman who sang a beautiful sweet-sounding version of  Amazing Grace especially for me.  When she asked me sing back to her I could feel my mouth going dry, me stomach tightening and feel my heart rate increase.  This lead to feelings of frustration and anger and Monica acknowledged this and tried to reassure me.

“The birds in the forest all have different singing voices and it would be a dull place if they all sounded the same”

I cannot blame insensitive comments of an elderly primary school teacher for my anxiety disorder.

The only time I ever sang was on the Camino de Santiago.  It was a very wet Saturday morning and I was just outside Melide with Pilar Fernandez Alonso. We were discussing favourite scenes from films.  She described a scene she loved where a man is at a typewriter and a woman is sat on the fire escape outside the window with a guitar and  she sings.

 “But I can’t remember the song”

I stopped, turned, looked her in the eye and sang

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q7SI7N22k_A