She rounded the corner into Wicklow Street that evening with rival gangs of butterflies slugging it out for ownership of her every nerve-ending. On that most typical of September weekends in Dublin. The weather moody, undecided on what temperature it was prepared to settle on as the changing of the guards got under way. Strident shoppers zigzagged home as they were elbowed aside by unhurried hopscotch formations. Nighthawks plotting their next drink. Her outfit wasn’t exactly the colour of hesitancy, more like a shade of relief accessorised with fear. Does this look naff? Would they recognise each other? Will their opening lines clash followed by further collisions of you firsts? Am I naff? Is he naff? Isn’t naff a naff word? With that she flung open the door and there he stood at the other end of the bar.