On the back of a sleepless night (yes, dear neighbours, I like Achtung Baby too, just not at top volume at half past two on a weekday morning when I’m trying to sleep), I was just beginning to foster doubts in the future of humanity when I received notification that Rupert, a dear dear old friend (who I lived with in Manchester) has just become a proud dad in Scotland. Hoorah!

Mother doing well, dad chuffed to bits, baby fit and fine and beautiful - and called Meg.

This is the second time a close friend has given my name to a child. I am insanely flattered, even if it’s got nothing to do with me personally - knowing Roop, it’s infinitely more likely that she was named after a unit of digital storage. I am the only Meg most people know - it’s just not that common a name over here - so when it crops up in people close to me, I grin like an idiot.

In any case, it certainly beats sharing my name with a dog, obviously.

When I was living in Edinburgh in 1993, I was walking across the Meadows to work one day when I heard a woman shouting “Meg! Me-e-g!” at the top of her voice.

Curious, I turned around just in time to hear her screech in a fantastic Edinburgh accent

“Hoi! Meg! Stop licking that dog’s erse!”

The person I was walking with didn’t let me live that down for months. Well, it could have been worse, I suppose; I might have been Rover. Or Fluffy.