I was reading Adam Bede on the bus this morning, with it's lovely little spiel on the methodists of the time, and Seth and had just declared his love for Dinah so beautifully, and it had all been written so exquisitely (this is the end of it "instead of bursting out into wild accusing apostrophes to God and destiny, he is resolving, as he now walks homeward under the solemn starlight, to repress his sadness, to be less bent on having his own will, and to live more for others ..."), and then I was walking down Market St lost in my reverie when I was stopped by an Irishman, with a voice full of that romantic charm that just is an Irish accent and eyes 'like the sea after a storm', to ask for directions ...