Thursday, December 22, 2011

The Importance Of Somebody Being Ernest

My Dad was called Ernest. That's him pushing my sister. Over the last thirty years we've watched the fashions in boy's names click by. We've seen the stalwart Edwardian names give way to the matier painter and decorator names of the 40s and 50s. We saw all sorts of unlikely names come back but my sister and I have always been pretty certain that it would be a long time before anyone would call a child Ernest again.

Today my wife was in the hairdressers next to another client with a four-week old baby. "What's his name?" she asked. The mother explained that they had combed through all the available names in search of something that wasn't going to turn up in those inevitable lists of the most popular names. They'd decided on Ernest. Best of luck, son.


  1. I expect he'll grow up to be a bunburyist.

  2. When I worked on the children's ward I admitted a young chap who had been christened Diesel Armani.

  3. He'll drive the fastest milk-cart in the west.

  4. If he does, he'd best avoid bakers.