My parents gave me two perfectly fine upper-class English names: Philippa (after my father, Philip) and Charmion (after a character in Shakespeare). Alas, we lived in a village on the Rideau River some 20 miles upstream of Ottawa, in an area dominated by Irish and Dutch dairy farmers who never read Shakespeare, but are very familiar with pop songs and the brand names of toilet paper.

For close to 30 years, I have spent the first ten minutes with every new acquaintance teaching him or her how to pronounce my name and stating that, no, I am not particularly charming. Distressingly often, I have to inform people that I am not at all amused when they try to squeeze me (see reference to toilet paper above). As a child, I desperately wanted to be named Carol or Debbie or Marilyn like all the other girls in my class, but I grew out of that stage during my seven years in the armed forces, when everyone called me Charlie and I let them because you just don't argue with your sergeant. At university, I dug my heels in on the name issue, and insisting is now a habit.

Although I wonder why it is so difficult for those who can't spell out my first name not to use my family name. How hard can it be to call out "Mrs Thomas" across the crowded waiting room, instead of feebly stumbling out, "Shah -- shah -- shah -- Charmane?" (No, my name is not Charmaine. "Charmion" has only one "a" in it, and you say it just the way it looks, in English ...)

After so many years of asserting my identity against all comers, I can honestly say that the struggle has probably done much to make me the formidable person people keep telling me I am!