“Hello, my lovely,” said the saleswoman at the furniture store. “Thank you, my lovely,” smiled the Tamar Bridge toll-lady. “There you are, my lovely,” chirped the waitress at the National Trust cafe counter, as she presented two steaming mince pies and cups of hot mulled wine. I have never been referred to as “lovely” before, particularly by a stranger, but I must say it’s something I could get used to. I guess you could say that my search for loveliness is a big part of what