The Irishman

I had a bit of a rough night and have not felt great today. I had to go to work but tried to cocoon myself in my office so as to reduce the risk of infecting anyone else. I stuck to some simple, boring stuff that needed to be done so at least ticked a few things off the list. Feeling full of cold I thought I might struggle with my photography at lunchtime but as it turned out it wasn't a problem at all. As soon as I started engaging with people the runny nose and cough dried up. It's amazing how the body has the mechanism to suppress symptoms when it needs to.

At the end of my brief walk around Market Square I spotted Paddy here about to light up outside the pub. He wouldn't actually tell me his name but I've decided he must be a Patrick. Paddy's stature, his look and demeanour, his dress, all spoke to me of a very distinctive Irishness. When I struck up a conversation I would actually have been shocked to hear a Yorkshire accent. I would have bet serious money on hearing an Irish one. And I would have won. Paddy is from Dublin, although he's been over here almost 20 years now. The first thing he did was offer me a cigarette, which I refused, of course, but I was touched by his generosity. A very Irish generosity indeed. By the time I said goodbye that cigarette had been shared by a few other people coming in and out of the pub.

There's no doubt that Paddy here fits a certain stereotype. I try not to make assumptions about people based on their appearance but it's hard not to sometimes, especially when you're quite often proved right. How does that work exactly? I've no idea.