Dolly liked TV in the way that some people like the radio in the car or popcorn at the cinema.  That is to say, it was always there, but she rarely noticed it.  Oh, she saw it, and it would have been impossible for her not to hear it, but she rarely sat down and really watched it.  Instead, it became part of the wallpaper of her life; noticeable only in its absence, such as the exceptional power cut, or if the priest came round to chat.

One evening, as Lucille Ball’s plan to make Mr Mooney’s life easier collapsed into black-and-white chaos, Dolly conceived.  She told Joe he was going to be a father as Leslie Crowther  invited a bubbly young woman to come on down.  One week later, Joe left after hearing Des Lynam read the football results.  Her waters broke as the fight in the Rovers Return erupted.  The TV was the last thing that was turned off as she left in the taxi for hospital, and the first thing that came on when she returned, after four long, lonely days bereft of television.

She didn’t know for sure how she came up with Maddie’s name.  In part, it was her Uncle Pat’s fault.  When she was small, he would sing after a Guinness or two, which was most weekends.  His favourite was Lydia, The Tattooed Lady.  Years later, when Dolly saw A Night At The Opera, for days she was convinced Groucho Marx had stolen the song off of her uncle.  In part, it was Oprah’s fault.  She didn’t watch Oprah.  The brash American behaved in a way that Dolly felt was unladylike, and many of the problems sounded imaginary to her.  Nevertheless, Oprah was on as she ironed, and that day’s subject lodged in her subconscious.

Four weeks after Maddie’s birth, Dolly arrived at the Register Office, little Maddie wrapped up in layers of multi-coloured wool, like a punk lamb.  She wanted a ladylike name, one that spoke of breeding and gentility, yet an unusual name, one that would differentiate her from the Annes and Susans of her peers.  The Registrar was a generation older than Dolly, though her seniority made her no wiser on the significance of the name than Dolly was.  She did seek to dissuade Dolly from calling her daughter such an unusual name, as she did with any parent, as it could cause teasing when at school, but Dolly was firm.  It was a pretty-sounding name, though, the Registrar had to admit.

Though Joe was not there as a father, nor even as an absentee provider, Dolly coped.  She was frugal with the money she got from the benefits office, so they wanted for nothing they actually needed.  Dolly loved Maddie, and Maddie reciprocated.  They didn’t need Joe, or riches, or friends; they had each other.  And, of course, the television.  And when the strains of Coronation Street wouldn’t soothe Maddie’s cries, Dolly would softly croon ‘Lydia, the Tattooed Lady’.”

It was when Maddie started school the problems arose.  The headmaster asked for an interview with Dolly.  She entered his small office, noting with approval the books that covered a whole shelf.  Here was a man of education, a certain standing in the community.  And he had asked to see Dolly, of all the young mums that had tearfully waved goodbye to their charges.  Men of the headmaster’s standing awed Dolly.

Strangely, though, on this morning the headmaster seemed to be the nervous one.  He jumped from behind his desk and shook her hand.  “Ah, Mrs Simpson.  I’m so glad you could come.”

“Dolly,” said Dolly.

“I’m sorry?”  Her response seemed to throw him, and he stared at her with a panicked look.

“Dolly.  No-one ever calls me Mrs Simpson.  I’ve been Dolly my whole life.”  She meant it as a friendly gesture, because the poor man looked so ill at ease, but he seemed as tense as ever.

“Right ... erm ... Dolly.  Yes .. well .. oh, please, do take a seat.”  He indicated the chair opposite his, and the two sat down.

“I need to speak to you about ... erm ... about ... your daughter.”

“Maddie?”

“Maddie?”  The headmaster looked nonplussed for a moment.  “Ah, yes, Maddie.  Of course.  Yes, Maddie.”  He picked up a small card from his desk and stared at it.  “Maddie, yes.  That’s ... um ... that’s not short for Madeleine?” he asked, with an air of desperate hope.

Dolly smiled.  “No.  That’s a French name, and my father never really held with the French.  I think it was the onions.”

“The onions?”  The headmaster paused again.  Talking to Dolly was like falling through a bagatelle: you were never quite sure which way the conversation would bounce next.  He shook his head, as if to clear it.  “Erm .. Is your daughter’s name really ... is it ... is it spelt correctly here?”

He shoved the square of card across the desk to Dolly.  Dolly picked it up and studied it.  On the card was Maddie’s details, including her full name.

“Yes.  Yes, that’s all correct.”  She looked at the headmaster.  He was staring at her, as if waiting for something else.  “Well done,” she added.  “Neat handwriting, too.  A Plus.”

Again the headmaster seemed to flounder in the rarefied air of Dollies responses.  “Thank you.  It’s the school secretary’s.  I shall pass on your comment.  No, listen, her name ....”

“Maddie,” confirmed Dolly.

“Yes, well, we’ll just have to call her by her middle name ..., “ he glanced at the card, “Mary.”  He grinned a manic grin that had more than a hint of pleading in it.

“Oh no,” said Dolly.  “That won’t do.  I never call her by her middle name.  She hardly knows what it is anyway.  Anyway, it’s so ... common.”  ‘Common’ had been Dolly’s Mother’s ultimate word of disapproval.  “What’s wrong with ‘Maddie’?”

“What’s wrong?  What’s wrong with ....  Madam,  Dolly,” he corrected himself.  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then asked resignedly, “What in God’s name induced you to call your child ‘Chlamydia’?”

“It sounds so pretty,” answered Dolly.  “Why?  What’s wrong with it?”