Don’t call me ‘Hev’ or you’ll get a tirade of snooty: ‘ I don’t answer to Hev. It’s Heather or Miss James.’
My parents went through a right hullabaloo to name me Heather.
More on names later.
Folks, I’ve been a proper Goddess Grumbleweed this week.
As many of you experience, niggling constant pain, regardless of age or gender, can wear you down.
You try to keep a true Brit grit stiff upper lip and soldier on doing all your chores, but the sweet sunshine of your soul slips away being replaced with pain-induced cantankerousness.
OK, pity party over.
On Tuesday I was clunked and clicked by my fabulous osteopath.
Agatha Flon Flon de Gussett and myself often giggle about all our aches and pains and then remind ourselves of the early 1990s and how different our daily lives were.
Full of mischievous naughtiness and gossip.
Back then I was teaching Salsa, and we both spent three or four evenings a week hip-gyrating, crotch on crotch, thigh-wrapped-round-lots-of-luscious fellas dancing!
Ah such sweet memories.
We never thought then that our nimble limbs would succumb to old age and seize up.
Anyway, back to baby names.
When I was born, Ma and Pa had a right conundrum. Ma’s Scots mum, Mary, insisted I was called Heather.
Pa’s mum, Vinchenza, (Spanish ancestry), said I should be called Elana.
What to do?
But Dame Destiny stepped in.
My dad (totally teetotal), was in the Royal Navy. His mess (predominately Scotsmen) decided to wet the baby’s head and raised their glasses to ‘Heather’.
Dad, three sheets to the wind on a couple of tots of rum, saluted ‘Heather’.
That did it.
My Scots gran said it was fate, and if they didn’t call me Heather it would upset The Universe and I would have a lousy life. Yeah right.
Be proud of your name and use it please.
It’s driving me bonkers, receiving texts, voicemails and landline messages from people who leave no name.
I don’t keep dozens of names on my mobile phone. And if you use predictive text for Heather, it comes out ‘Hevier’. The joys of modern technology.