ONCE UPON A BORING afternoon, I Googled the word ‘Cooney’. And guess what? My surname, it seems, is derived from an old Gaelic word meaning ‘little wolf’.
‘Little Wolf’ – yeah, I like that. And if it’s all right with you, I might try it for a while.
The truth is, of course, I didn’t choose my name. I wasn’t given a list to look through. Nobody asked me if I’d rather be Ramsbottom or Fogglesworth, Bracegirdle or Knutt. That decision was made for me. As most decisions were …
My whiskery old ancestors didn’t brief me when they hitched up their skirts, climbed onto leaky boats and sailed across the world. They forgot to check if I wanted to be their great-great-grandson and carry on the family name. But I am … and I have … and I’m not complaining.
I didn’t get to pick my parents. No one asked if I’d prefer a policeman or a pig farmer instead of an accountant for a dad … a fashion-queen or a film-star instead of a shoe-shop-lady for a mum. And nor did I choose to be a Kiwi. I could’ve grown up in the Stone Age or the Ice Age, instead of the Space Age – but I didn’t. And I might’ve been a Viking, a medieval monk, or a Neanderthal Man – but I wasn’t.
I never got to choose my birthday. No one said, “Put a ring around it, sonny, and we’ll keep that date free!” If I’d had the chance, I might’ve picked 1861 or 1357. But I didn’t – and I didn’t. Which is why I’m not 163 or 667.
Come to think of it, I forgot to plan my conception, or even ask to be born. But I’m very glad I was, ‘cause you have to be born to be glad, eh!
JOHN (GRAPEVINE’S FOUNDER & BIG CHEESE) IS THE PROUD PART-OWNER OF COUNTLESS GRANDKIDS – SO THE COONEY NAME AND FORTUNE IS SAFE FOR THE TIME BEING.
