She was born on July 24th. She's not mine, but somehow I feel a nagging responsibility. I could be a decent enough mentor, I suppose. Teach her a few things. How to blag her way into concerts and busk for hamburgers in the London Underground. If she'd let me, I could help her with all kinds of important stuff.
Such as which brands of cider result in the worst hangovers. Such as why that boy with the devilish smile isn't really worth it. I could tell her how second-hand clothes can be her best friend and why Don't Stand Me Downby Dexys Midnight Runners is a musical work of art. I could tell her to read The Green Foolby Patrick Kavanagh for the wisdom, and watch Curb Your Enthusiasmfor the laughs. She's not mine, this tiny little scrap of a baby girl, but I do have a vested interest.
News of her entry to the world came out of left field. Her happening stunned me a bit, to be honest. I'm not addicted to Googling myself, unlike some people, but when I did it for the first time a couple of years ago I was secretly delighted to discover that I was quite possibly the only person with my name who existed in the world.
Googling myself also unearthed the fact that there were a couple of people in bedsits and darkened bedrooms around the country blogging about the many ways they'd like to torture and then kill the only person in the world with my name. That would be me, then.
These people, while they had an impressive line in bitter invective, weren't very inventive, it has to be said. I could think of far worse fates than being strung up to the nearest lamp post and set on fire. Serves me right for Googling myself. Obviously, I don't do it any more. Much.
Anyway, since July 24th I am no longer unique of moniker. I've been overtaken by someone more than three decades younger. I feel as if my mojo has been robbed. Or that my essence, my very Róisín Ingleness, has been somehow diminished.
Growing up, I was always different, at least in name, and I liked it that way. There may have been three other Róisíns in my class in primary school, but not one of them was an Ingle. They say my father looked at me when I was born and said: "You look like a little rose, so Róisín it is." None of the other Ingles, either the fighting Ingles or the drinking Ingles - or even the fighting, drinking Ingles - had ever thought to put the name Róisín on one of their offspring's birth certificates. Until now.
At first I was sure the text message was a joke. "A friend of Julie's had a baby girl yesterday. Her surname is Ingle. She called the baby Róisín." I did some detective work. Okay, I made one phone call. Apparently, this new Róisín Ingle is my second cousin once removed. The fact that we are - distantly - related has softened the blow, but only slightly. This new Róisín Ingle, this infant usurper, is the daughter of my second cousin Nicky.
I didn't know my second cousin Nicky existed until the text message came. Now I know all about Nicky. About his father, Alexander, and his grandfather James, who was the brother of my grandfather Charles. Ah, they must be the Northside Ingles, my mother said. "Oh, so we're the ones who wear gold chains and tracksuits?" laughed Nicky in response. "And wear pyjamas going to the shops," I agreed, with the wisdom of an Ingle who now has a Northside passport herself.
Nicky, sensing my underlying frustration, promised he'll steer junior away from the writing professions, just in case she might steal my thunder. (I pretended to be offended by this suggestion, but the relief flooded through me, I don't mind telling you.) Another bonus is that these particular Ingles are mad into the sporting side of life, so no competition there.
Despite her inevitable athletic prowess, I already feel an affinity with this Róisín person. She sleeps a lot, apparently. Snoozes all day and comes awake at night, which is something we can already bond over.
She has a dark shock of hair, and is apparently the most Ingley looking of all Therese and Nicky's three Ingle children, the others being Nicole and Luke.
Now that another Róisín Ingle is in the world I feel a duty of care. I'm the fairytale well-wisher at her cot searching for the right words. I'll do my best.
Róisín Ingle jnr, may the force be with you. May you live long and prosper. May the road rise to meet you. And may you never, ever Google yourself and find bad people in chat rooms who want to torture you. Or me, for that matter.
We are in this together now, Róisín.
