Early one morn whilst in Dublin, I arose before the sun.  I grabbed my camera gear and headed out on an adventure.  I headed down a very empty O’Connell street absent of the usual hustle and bustle that is Dublin.  The air was crisp and still as I crossed the Liffey river.  I made my way up Westmoreland street and onto Grafton Street.  The clickety-clack of a slender woman’s high heels was the only sound reverberating round the shops that morn.  The rising sun peering through the clouds was illuminating the dew laden upon Molly Malone, as I made my way towards her sculpture.

The dawning dew was ever so slightly running down her elegantly arranged coiffure, collecting in the rim of her ears, and cascading down to the nape of her neck.  It flowed along the curvature of her breast and pooled in the fabric of her dress.

I stood there for a moment and cerebrated about what I’d say to such a resplendent woman.  It was at this point that I realised that I must be British, because I over analyse everything.