Just Back: finding Joyce in Dublin A lack of agreement means we find ourselves wandering down a busy main street, unsure of quite where we're going. As we round a corner, I spy a small, unassuming pharmacy nestled between a panini place and a chain coffee store. It looks as though it has been open since Wilde was walking the streets of Dublin. Our Australian group member pipes up, suggesting that we ask for directions in there, although it doesn't look open. I cup my hands to the window and peer past all the medicinal curios cluttering the shop front, and let out an "ooh" of surprise. A soft, beautiful Irish voice fills the air as we squeeze into the space by the door. A woman at the back is reading, almost hidden by a display stand for cough medicine. The man who had urged us to come inside silently hands out copies of the same book to all of us: Joyce's Dubliners. We all have a turn at reading a couple of pages. English, American, Australian, German and Irish accents give the text their own unique character, and for half an hour that tiny pharmacy becomes turn-of-the-century Dublin. Our hunger is forgotten as we feast on one of the city's literary greats. After reading two stories we stop. The numerous voices that had consecutively commanded the air now intertwine, some discussing the text and others asking more personal questions. I find myself speaking to the man behind the counter, whose love for Joyce is matched only by his affinity for languages; he can speak seven tongues fluently. It suits him, I think, being surrounded by all of these books. I bet he even understands Ulysses. As we all start to file out the door about 20 minutes later, a thought suddenly strikes me. I turn back to our welcoming polyglot. Do you know a good place where we can eat? I ask. Email your entry of no more than 500 words (with the text in the email itself rather than attached) to justback@telegraph.co.uk by midnight on Wednesday, March 28.