Bloody Mary

What's in a name? Well, everything, since you ask. Anyone who is lucky enough to be called by the monicker on their birth certificate would probably consider the question to be trivial. It's not to me. And that's because I was christened Mary Denise, but called Denise. Why? Because the Irish priest who conducted the service balked at the heathen Denise - "sure there's no Saint Denise. You can't call a Catholic child that!" - and stuffed the name of the holiest woman ever born in front of it. But there is a Saint Denise, ignorant man. A quick glance at Wikipedia would have told him that. I was martyred in the 3rd century along with Sts Peter, Paul and Andrew, and in 5th-century Africa I met a grisly end with Dativa, Leonitia, Tertius, Emilianus, Boniface, Majoricus and Servus. Take your pick. And then there's Dionysia, the Greek goddess of the grape harvest, wine-making and wine. Perhaps that was the connection that Father Flipping Fanning didn't like. And thanks to him I've endured, nay suffered, a lifetime of confusion and difficulty over my identity.

Anyway, this issue has come up again as I go to vote. I don't bring my voting card with me because you don't need it. What's your address, they ask. I tell them. And your name? Denise Laing. There's no one of that name shown, they tell me, and look at me doubtfully. Oh right, I say, that's me though. My name is Mary Denise Laing, or to be more precise Mary Denise Frances Ping-Pong Nellie the Elephant Laing, but that wouldn't all fit on the electoral register, would it. Again they look at me curiously and exchange worried looks with each other. But I'm in a bad mood and not prepared to be patient. I've walked down to the old village school in the sunshine and half way there it has turned to heavy rain with no warning. I'm not wearing a coat. It's half a mile. I washed my hair not three hours ago. I'm bedraggled and cold, and I have half a mile to walk back. I glare at them, and then I suddenly see the funny side and smile, very broadly. They look relieved and smile too, and I'm given my voting slip. And as I single-handedly turn blue Suffolk green I march out into the rain and walk home again.