If James Joyce were an ordinary man.

Every morning he flings his two large feet out of his single bed and into his worn-out slippers. A wiggle of the toes begins a new day. On his way to work he whistles the melody to the Irish National Anthem which slowly changes into tuneless scales. His dark moustache rustles and reverberates on reaching the higher notes. His brisk steps leave imprints in the fresh snow. He loves to smoke his pipe in the early evening, when the hustle and bustle of the day is done and his sister makes him sausages and mash. Not incidentally his favourite dish. The dark scent of tobacco merges with the fibres of the curtains blocking the moonlight, it lingers all night. James Joyce falls asleep in his father’s old chair while listening to the indistinctly sung psalms his neighbour practises every Saturday night.