We were driving along a familiar route the other day when a sudden diversion sign took us down a minor side road. There, at the end, nestled among a little clutch of conifers, was a tiny Hansel and Gretel house with its name on a pokerwork slab beside the door ‘Owlzoot’. Now I don’t know about you, but if I had a little dream house tucked away among the pines, I just don’t think I could bring myself to call it Owlzoot, not even if the owls ‘ooted non-stop day and night.
Since then I’ve been noticing house names and wondering about all those outbursts of creativity which have produced such inspiration as ‘Maydit’ from an otherwise intelligent family who are obviously proud of the fact that they did-it-themselves and ‘The Shambles’ from a cheery bunch who presumably don’t mind publicly admitting defeat.
There are many such gems to be found, I discovered, although I wouldn’t choose all of them myself. For instance, I don’t think I’d move into a new house, even if it was at the top of a steep hill, and call it ‘Bali-Hi’. Nor, come to think of it, would I choose ‘The Lawns’ if the only greensward I could boast of was a pocket hanky patch of moss and daisies.
Some of these names probably seemed like a rattling good joke in the wee small hours of their creation, but surely not for much more than a week or two afterwards.
I quite like the wry truth implicit in the four-bedroom-extra-study-triple-garage owner’s choice of ‘Pretty Penny’ and the desperation of the tiny chalet dweller’s ‘Last Farthing’. And I just love John Steinbeck’s ‘The Palace Flophouse’ for his bunch of down and outs in Cannery Row.
For the most part I’d rather see a nice neat number, even a 9372A than a ‘Betkenwynron’, because Dad thought it would be a pretty snappy idea to combine all our christian names. Or ‘Nosnibor’ because, for a real scream, we’ve used our surname backwards.
It’s a bit sad too to see a dour old body lurking in a doorway marked ‘Shanklin’ or ‘Ventnor’ or ‘Weston-Super-Mare’. Did she and her angry old mate ever really return from a radiant honeymoon and say to themselves, ‘An experience like that deserves to be recorded for posterity over the front door, even if we do live in Slough’. I suppose if you already live at the seaside this could present a problem. If you live in Ventnor, it could be downright confusing to visitors to put up a sign saying ‘Shanklin’. Many seaside dwellers seem to have ex-Colonial connections, hence the heavy sprinkling of coastal bungalows called ‘Trinkamalee’ and ‘Poonah’ and even ‘Chotapeg’.
It would be interesting to find out how the names of the occupants relate to the names of the houses. Doubtless many a Bobby and Bunny, a Pat and Pam flashed clean colonial limbs on tennis courts of the thirties. The war produced its crop of young Winstons and Nevilles, Shirleys and Ritas, and in those days we had Aunts called Edna and Ada, Ruby and Rose. I wonder how many babies these days are christened Ruby? No, when our children grow up, the world will be full of Uncle Simons and Auntie Fionas. During this past decade we’ve had umpteen Marks, a sprinkling of Dominics and quite a lot of Sarahs. Not to mention recent outbursts of Tracey and Karen and Kevin and Gary.
As with houses, the joke element can creep in from time to time, with day old scraps of humanity labouring under the name of entire football teams. What happens on their wedding day when they get to the bit that says: Do you Ray Chris Alex Trevor Larry Emlyn Kevin Peter Steve Philip Ian take this woman etc, etc? Especially if she’s been named after a ladies’ hockey team!
At school we had a Roma Burns and a Gayna Payne, and a girl I worked with said she once met a Lettuce Gotobed but even I find that hard to believe. However, my husband says he knew a Mr and Mrs Lord who called their son Nelson, and I’m sure we can all tell of similar flashes of jokey association.
There are some perfectly harmless names which are out because they remind us of someone ghastly. If you once knew a smelly old horror called Wilfred then it’s no good, you just aren’t going to be happy with an infant Wilf toddling around the living room, even if it is the traditional name for the first-born son in your husband’s family.
It’s tricky too, if just when you are poised at the font, your best friends choose your favourite name for their dog. Better to steer clear of Bruce, Kim, Toby and Jason if this looks like happening to you – although Spot, Fluff and Fido should be a fairly safe bet – for the dog, of course.
On the other hand, you may actually be living at ‘Owlzoot’ with a son called Ellington Duke and a daughter known as Fluff. You may even have a dog who answers to Chotapeg. In which case, you probably won’t have enjoyed reading this very much.