A Hollyday

So twenty-four years ago today, Holly Gaiman turned up in my life. At that point she didn't even have a name: we had thought she was going to be a Gemma, but she didn't look like a Gemma, so Mary and I went back to the drawing board, or rather the baby names book, and decided independently that Holly was the name we both liked. Her middle name is Miranda because I wanted her to have a bigger, posher name in case she needed one. She hasn't needed it yet, but you never know.

I miss her. She lives in London, now. I don't see her as much as I'd like, and I speak to her most days only because she's really good about phoning me.

She's my daughter, and I love her. That goes without saying. She has the most amazing smile in the world, a will of iron, a huge heart, and is, I'm proud to say, one of my very best friends in the whole world. That stuff is all a marvellous bonus.

I love you, Holly Miranda Gaiman. Happy Birthday.

(I'm in California now, and it's still her birthday here, but it's finished in London, and she'll be asleep by now, and I haven't spoken to her yet today. Sigh. Love you so much, girl.)