Giving Names to the Queens.

Do you know that in all my life, as far as I’m aware, I’ve never known an Abigail, Isabella or Aisling? And yet they are my three favourite women’s names.

Abigail has long been my favourite. It belongs to a quiet, hard working girl with a dark edge and an air of mystery about her. Her hair is long, brown and lustrous, and her chestnut eyes carry the qualities of knowing and dreaming in equal measure. Abi says little, but she gets whatever she needs with seeming ease and you return her stare at your peril. If you hear her calling you from a distance in the night, you try to go back to sleep and hope for the best. She would be at home in an M Night Shyamalan film, ensconced within the deep, dark woods of remotest Pennsylvania.

Isabella is my second favourite. Her raven hair falls naturally in waves, and she is thought to be the strongest evidence to date of the rumoured liaison between a maternal ancestor and a Spanish prisoner of war in Napoleonic times. She is quiet too, but more from pride and self-consciousness than mystery. She speaks when she wishes to and not until, and her sharp hazel eyes are ever capable of ensnaring those who think themselves impervious to ensnarement. Bella would be at home ruling some colonial mansion set deep in the bayous of Louisiana.

Aisling is my third favourite. She is a minx, a leprechaun, a sly yet principled little weaver of honest mischief. Her wayward, flame-red hair sets light to those whose suspicions she arouses, while her deep blue eyes could tickle a daisy one minute and blow the moon from its orbit the next. She has a temper that is quick to rise and quick to fall, and a laugh like the shyest of sirens competing with the gale. Ash belongs on the sea cliffs of Connemara where the wild Atlantic rages, content to be alone and daring the elements to subdue her spirits.

So there you have it. Come to think of it, I’ve never know a Phoebe either, but that’s probably just as well since Phoebe isn’t a favourite.