I could, and would like to, speak about the last roll of toilet paper in the house. But I won’t.
Phil recently inspired two questions: How did you come by your name? Who decided your children’s names? A worthy subject. Going right to the core of our being. Not least directing you to the divorce court.
The Angel’s name came easy. And no, his name is not “The Angel”. He just looks like one. May I say, and be assured of my dismay, that some blogger took it upon herself to find out what my son’s name is and publish it. She preens herself on being ‘curious’. And was gracious enough assuring me (on my blog) that I was most welcome to take down the information she had put out there in more detail than strictly necessary, including my address. Well, Cheerful Monk/Jean – yours is one of two comments I took down in all my years of blogging. Not because the Angel could give a shit who knows his name. Well known anyway. But that moment I saw you as spiteful. Hope it’ll somehow chime with your Buddha.
Sorry, got carried away there with anger. Karma, no doubt, will take care of both mean Jean and myself.
Yes, names. What’s in a name? I don’t know. I chose my son’s by intuition. Since an unusual name here, people will gush over it. Yet, when I am introduced to someone name doesn’t matter. Not really. A Benjamin is not necessarily a Benjamin. John is unfortunate. But only because there so many of them.
My grandmother registered my birth. Going against her daughter’s/my mother’s wishes. Thus I am Ursula (same name as my mother’s) and am very happy with it. I’d have hated to be what my mother had in mind and then named her second daughter, and beloved sister of mine. So I am an Ursula and most certainly not my sister. Ponder on this, any of you who have names and/or siblings.
And then there is one of my pet hates: Abbreviating a name. My son’s name can’t be abbreviated. For that it’s too short. Pity one of my nephews: Christopher. A name is a name. Say it. Even if it takes a nano second longer than abbreviating it. It’s one thing I do not like about English speaking countries: Their need to abbreviate. Why? You are given a name. How hard can it be for friends, family, teachers, colleagues to actually say your name in full?
The last paragraph felt good.
You may call me Urse. Only one person in my life has called me that, and I loved it. Yes, GG . And, in many a moment of affection, I too shortened his six letter name to four.
Over to you, Phil.