Simon and Sarah: the Name Issue.

Simon, Sarah and their little boy, Stanley, were sitting at their dining table eating their evening meal. Stanley, who was unusually conscientious for a boy of his age, was concentrating hard on holding his knife with the handle underneath the palm of his hand, rather than over the top where it would mimic the appearance of a pencil.

His mother had taught him to hold it that way. She’d said that it didn’t really matter how a knife was held, but that there were people in polite society who took such matters seriously, and that if he were ever to mix with them he would feel more at ease if the ‘correct’ holding of table utensils was a matter of practised ease. Sarah was currently following received form as she cut the components of her meal into small pieces, before placing them demurely into a mouth opened only so far as was necessary to allow comfortable access.

Simon, on the other hand, was holding the leg of a large, roasted bird in the manner of a club, and biting unduly large chunks off the thigh while concentrating on the stutterings and shriekings emanating from some lurid game show on the television.

‘Dad,’ said little Stanley.

‘What?’ said little Stanley’s dad.

‘Why is my name Stanley?’

Simon paused in his chewing to guffaw at the ravings of a curiously-shaped, middle aged woman in a floral dress who had just guessed that Mozart had been responsible for painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. A few morsels of roasted bird thigh landed on the carpet in consequence.

‘What’s wrong with Stanley?’ replied his father eventually, while eagerly watching for the latest score to be flashed up on the big screen with the flashing lights.

‘I’m the only boy in my school called Stanley. Craig Johnson says it’s a silly name.’

‘Craig Johnson’s a prat,’ said Simon with commendable certainty. ‘You’re called Stanley because your granddad was called Stanley. It’s traditional to call boys after their granddads.

Sarah, being entirely devoid of any desire to watch glitzy game shows, began to search her mind for another example among the boys she’d known of one who had been named after his grandfather. Having failed with the first five which came to mind, she gave up and cut a rather large piece of potato into two halves. She said nothing. Stanley, on the other hand, wasn’t finished yet.

‘So was your granddad called Simon?’ he asked.

‘Will you shut up,’ his father replied, the merest hint of aggression being apparent in his tone. ‘I’m trying to watch a programme on the TV. You should watch it, too. You might learn something.’

‘Your dad’s right,’ said Sarah unexpectedly. ‘It is true that it’s a convention in his family to name boys after their grandfather. His grandfather was called Theophilus, but he could never get the spelling right, so when he was old enough he changed it to Simon. Easy to spell, see?’

‘What the hell would you know?’ said her husband, finally taking his eyes from the glitzy game show in order to fire a little venom in the direction of his wife. ‘Where the hell did you get that from?’

‘Your mother told me,’ said Sarah

Little Stanley giggled.