As neuroses go, it's probably not among the most damaging that a poor tortured soul might have to endure. In fact, considering everything that ails humankind these days I probably shouldn't mention it at all. But here's the thing. I hate my name. Always have done since I was old enough to master all three syllables. And don't tell me it's a nice name. It doesn't matter whether you think it is or not, because as the person who has to live with it, it's on my birth certificate, my driving licence and my passports (both British and Irish) and I detest it with a passion. During the early years of my working life I'd give my name to somebody over the phone and then have to spell out every single letter. One builder whose accounts I was given to work on called me “Sebastian” instead. Which sounded quite ridiculous in a West Cornwall accent. He thought it was hilarious, and he was the customer so I had to grin politely and put up with it. Whenever I say my name it sounds as if I'm a very minor member of the aristocracy. An impoverished fourth son of the baron of a dried up salt marsh who stopped receiving invitations to an audience with the king in the early 1950’s. Nowadays, only people who've known me forever call me Dominic. Generally speaking that's my parents, although my sister often slips into it. She's also had three syllables dumped on her. Rebecca, but only Mum, who remains insistent on this nonsense, calls her that. Everyone else has always called her Becky. My brother is kinder and calls me Dom unless he's in a playful mood and wants to annoy me. As you’ll read later, he got away lightly.
I dropped the “inic” many years ago and anyone who has come into my orbit over the last twenty years simply knows me as Dom. My closest friends only know me as Dom, because that's what I told them my name was when I met them for the first time. “Dom” I can deal with, even though it's often misheard as John or Tom, or mistyped as Don. Once in Barcelona I told the waitress I was “Domingo.” It was the only way to avoid confusion. As for “Dominic,” hardly anyone could spell that correctly. There'd be a K on the end, or two many O's and not enough ‘I's. Or all of those things. One secretary where I worked in my twenties always called me Dominique. Spelt it that way on Christmas cards too. Even though I love France, I'm not French. In the same workplace, an IT consultant spent a few weeks with us and was introduced to me as Nic. It was only when he had to put his full name on a form that I realised we had the same first name. He obviously hated Dominic too, but had been rather more inventive than me at throwing the nomenclature pedants off the scent. Why hadn't I thought of Nic? That would have been much better. Although I suppose everyone would still have added a K on the end. Later on, a cleaner who was hovering on the brink of retirement became convinced my name was Duncan. “Alright Duncan?” she’d chirp squeakily as she came in to empty the bins at the end of each day. I’ve really no idea where she’d got Duncan from, and before long, it was too late to disabuse her. To her, I’d always be Duncan. My colleagues loved this. As for my surname, don't even go there. It's Haughton, not Houghton or Horton or any similar version of events. Hardly anyone gets that right first time. Almost everyone says it wrong too. Even people who've known me for years pronounce it wrongly. I've been on many adventures with Lee, and he still pronounces it Howton. But it's Horton. Spelt Haughton. With an A and only one O, and definitely no R's. Keeping up? Can you see why it drives me around the bend? Told you it was a pain to live with. I've been dealing with this for nearly sixty flipping years!
Three syllables for goodness sake. Nobody needs three syllables in a forename. It's one too many. When I was four and a half, my brother came along. I was not impressed at having to share my parents with anyone else, and to add insult to injury they called him David. Why couldn't I have been called David, like David was? I protested bitterly and begged our parents to call me David too, but they heartlessly ignored me. I was stuck with Dominic, no matter how much I detested those three syllables. And he can be abbreviated to Dave. Everyone hears and spells Dave correctly. Nobody says, “come again, was that Wade?” Or “pleased to meet you Gabe!” You couldn't possibly get it wrong.
“So why bring all of this up now?” is a question you might be asking. Well at the time of writing, and after a few days in Cork catching up with my family, I'm on the west coast of Ireland, on the Dingle Peninsula in Kerry to be exact. Kerry. That’s another name you can’t really get wrong. Staying in a cottage where the host greeted me as Dom. “A good place to write,” as my cousin Fiona pointed out. She's the only one of eight siblings with a triple syllable by the way. But really, Fiona is more like two and a bit as you can merge the vowels almost seamlessly. All eight of my Irish cousins, and my aunt and uncle, being among the people who've known me longest on this planet, call me Dominic, pretty much without exception. I've been Dominic for four days now. But the strange thing is, I don't mind it so much when they say it. Something about the easy stretching of the vowels and the gentle Cork lilt that makes me sound like the strange Cornish cousin that I am, rather than the landed gentry at the big house in Midleton where my Great Grandfather worked as head gardener over a hundred years ago. They all have that same twinkle about them that Grandad did too. But when you breathe in a landscape like this on a daily basis, it’s no wonder really. It’s a rare place this.
I'm here today and tomorrow, and then I'm back to Cork where I'll become Dominic again for a couple of days until I land back in Cornwall early next week. When I’m home, I’ll be Dom - so don’t get any ideas. Not unless you’re Irish that is. Especially if you’re from Cork. Then, just maybe, I might just let you get away with it without pulling a face that tells you what I really think about those three dreaded syllables.
