It was a Monday morning and I was one of that brigade know as city gents marching to work along the subway at Bank Underground station when my attention was arrested by the sound of a violin, or indeed I should say fiddle as the tune was obviously a traditional Irish air. Far removed from my usual taste it nevertheless struck a chord, presumably in my brain, though it seemed to me at the time to resound somewhere in my belly.

I had but seconds to observe the source of my fascination before being swept along by my fellow commuters. This momentary sighting revealed a shabbily-dressed man of roughly my own age with thick, greying hair and at least two day's growth upon his chin. An insignificant figure, why then did I crane my neck for a second look? It was his expression. His upturned face had upon it a rapturous smile such as one rarely encounters in this part of town or indeed anywhere for that matter on Monday morning. He took as much notice of the passersby as they did of him. To all intents and purposes he was beneath the city streets begging a living but he had about him an aura of such happiness you would think he were high on a mountain top playing in celebration of life itself. So began my captivation.