North Great George's Street

I passed her name today, on Facebook. The tool for finding people you might just know, I must have clicked through a thousand names out of boredom and light intolerance.

Elinor. Ellie. The surname. That surname. Jesus, yes.

I knew her for four weeks, maybe five, in school in the run-up to the Lord Of The Rings. I was to play Sam.

She was a willing extra, a hobbit or some such.

A green costume and orange skin, the Yorkshire accent borne of Dublin's north-side. She saw me sitting alone between scenes as the week's play, the months of rehearsal, drew to a finish. My silent breathing in of the boards broken by her standing there.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"I'm Ellie, my brother goes here."

"Hi Ellie. I'm Sam Gamgee. I go here."

She laughed.

"Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that my mam saw the play last night and said you were the best thing in it, so don't look so sad. Bye."

"Bye."

Ellie.

I found her number, dialled it once out of twenty times paused, but the gruff father's voice made the whole thing redundant, too tall an order for a 12-year-old.