What makes life interesting, apart from the ineffable mysteries of the cosmos and such, is the fact that we're all different. Some of us are suited to a life on the stage, some might prefer to be out in the sun.
My daughter's very like me: she likes curries and superhero comics and fart gags, especially fart gags. Whether that's heredity or training or Stockholm syndrome I'm unwilling to speculate.
But I'm a disappointment as an uncle. I know nothing about cars, I care not a fig for football, and my interest in fishing is limited to sushi menus.
That's all fine. My nephews have other, tougher uncles to consult. And if a nerdy nebbish with a vulgar sense of humour ever should spring from my brother's loins, I'll be ready. My extensive library of vintage DC comics and whoopee cushions will be at the newcomer's disposal.
But what about poor little George Alexander Louis? He's got an uncle whose lively interests and proclivities are the stuff of popular lore. Prince Harry is an old-fashioned royal roué in the classic mould, and he has promised to make sure his nephew "has fun". If little George should grow up with a taste for wild nights at Mahiki or naked billiard games he'll be fine. Royal decadence and regal banter is a well-established tradition. King Edward VII's young adulthood was one long fortnight in Faliraki. If he were alive today he'd be the role model for an entire generation of Nuts readers.
But what if he's one of life's readers, or ramblers, or republicans? It could happen. After all, I was brought up in a staunchly royalist household but imbibed a strong sense of social justice from Batman comics.
Who knows what ideas might take root in that unformed mind? I rather hope he does find a kindred spirit somewhere in that slightly bonkers family that our ancestors decided to revere. I might not like the institution, but it would be terribly mean-spirited to wish the unhappiness of isolation on a tiny infant barely a few days old.
If it were me, born into that archaic, dysfunctional setup, I'd be looking a little further than my playboy uncle for companionship and guidance. Perhaps as far as a great uncle so unsuited to mainstream royalling that they made him the earl of an imaginary county.
Dear old uncle Eddie. Prince of nerds. And hanging around with him, little George is more likely to earn a few lines in The Stage, rather than a kiss and tell in The Sun.