I text my Irish uncle, asking if his daughter has grown out of the clan kilt she wore to our wedding.
'If so', I text, 'can my daughter inherit it'? He says he will ask his daughter, who in our family we simply refer to as 'The Child'.
My uncle, a Manchester United fan thanks to George Best, normally only texts me on match days to slag off Arsenal.
But today he wants to know what we've decided to call my daughter.
I text, 'We've vowed not to tell anyone the name, after my brother and in-laws slagged off some of our options.'
Him: 'Tell me. I won't slag it'.
Me: 'I promised not to. But I can say it has an Arsenal connection . . .'
A blizzard of texts ensues.
Him: Is it 'Boring Boring Arsenal?'
Him: Is it 'Pat Rice?'
Him: Is it 'Martine Keown?'
Him: Is it 'Toni Adams?'
Him: Is it 'Terri Henry?'
Me: 'You can't just name Arsenal's Double-winning teams. There's far too many'.
Him: Too many? Too fucking many? Yer having a laugh. You're naming her Chelsea.
Him: Not Charlie Georgie?
Him: Is it 'Wewuz Robbed?'
Him: I know I know. Is it Arsenal runners-up?
And so the long night wore on . . .
