I was seventeen. So was she: if she'd been older she'd have had more sense than to stay with us. We were together for 18 months before I went up to Dublin to study. When I went home for Christmas and Easter, she was there: I suppose it used to be something of an event for her, though of course I never thought of that then. (BROADBENT: Were you at all hard hit?) Not really. I had only two ideas at that time, first, to learn to do something; and then to get out of Ireland and have a chance of doing it. She didn't count. I was romantic about her, just as I was romantic about Byron's heroines or the old Round Tower of Rosscullen; but she didn't count any more than they did. I've never crossed St George's Channel since for her sake--never even landed at Queenstown and come back to London through Ireland. (BROADBENT: But did you ever say anything that would justify her in waiting for you?) No, never. But she IS waiting for me.

Doyle Monologue from John Bull's Other Island

Rehearse Doyle's monologue