For reasons far too complicated to mention, my colleagues have started calling me Nick. Ever since God gave man authority to give names to all the animals humans have given names to others, as a way of trying to suggest they have power over them.
I have a godson called Nic - to whom I have been rubbish at being a godparent but he did get confirmed so job done - and I think his spelling is altogether funkier. So if I must be Nick I will be Nic.
Apparently (come closer this is a bit secret) I was nearly called Robin. My parents took one look and decided it wasn't right. Strange the way that works. We took one look at the boy we had decided to call Daniel and changed it on the spot. He wasn't a Dan. No way.
A previous clergy colleague had nicknames for almost every one in the congregation. My Dad did the same for all his family and acquaintances, apart from Aunt Ida with whom you didn't mess.
So, this is St Nic signing off. For now. As they say in the Blues Brothers, 'If the sh*t fits, wear it.'
4 comments:
st nic, heh?
we must remember that around next Christmas time...
Nic?
What sort of colleagues have you got down there, Steve?
I was supposed to be Samantha, but on taking that one look, was instantly Claire.
It begs the question "What do Samanthas (and Robins and Daniels I suppose) look like?"
Are there names for which there are no preconceived "looks"; do we get more of them?
Nicknames are curious things, aren't they? Splendid when nice. Hideous when not.
A school friend called Jeremy was obliged to put up with being addressed (almost universally) as 'Syph' for the whole of his secondary-school career.
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