Dating and the importance of names

Recently a well-meaning friend suggested that I meet some single friends of hers, so far so good… except when I asked for their names… which when heard, left me with a look of horror upon my visage. In all seriousness I cannot possibly date someone called Dominic (no offence to my mates called Dominic), I mean that becomes ‘Dom’!! Cripes...not sexy!! (err again, no offence to my mates called Dominic). I have learnt this all from past experience when I dated a Craig, who several weeks into the relationship suddenly started calling himself ‘Craigo’…err no thanks! You may as well just call yourself Yobbo!  There was also the thirty year old ‘Bobby’ I dated, whom I always referred to as Robert. I cannot possibly call a grown man Bobby and in fact when he introduced himself to my mother as Bobby, I corrected him and said- ‘Robert’ (Yes I know I shouldn’t have let it get as far as meeting my mother).  Now, this dear friend of mine who meant well in trying to find me a man, also suggested another poor bastard called…. Hmmm something insane like ‘Robert Ann’. I have no idea how anyone can possibly date a man who has a female surname like Ann!! what is this world coming too?? And, as I have already dated two Roberts in my life, have a mate as well as a Brother-in- Law called Robert, I cannot possibly have another Robert in my life at this point in time… In fact I fear that I may have completed my quota of Roberts’!.... Next !!!

Does this all make me picky, finicky and elitist? Probably!  The reality is that circumstances have propelled me up the class ladder and I now sit too comfortably amongst my middle class peers . My Bourgeois leanings led me to contemplate important things such as- do I really have the time to dedicate to that book on Proust I had seen at the new specialist book boutique which had just opened and that no one else had stumbled across yet? Obviously serious thoughts such as this are pondered as I sip my latte and nibble on my Pain au chocolat… or have quiche for lunch at Monsieur Truffe (served with a divine relish, on the side-of course!). My expanding waistline seconds the motion and highlights not only my lifestyle of privilege, but that of prosperity.  What does this all mean? It means that these lips cannot bear to speak a name that reeks of vulgarity. Surely it is obvious to all that I need a man whose name matches my station in life. 

Do not, I repeat do not send me names that can be reduced to Bogan yelps on a sporting field or in a bar (or strip club for that matter). No Dazza’s, Bazza’s or Stewie’s.  And please spare me the fragility of a Nicholas, Francis and the like.

No… I want a man with a decent sounding name like Karl, Max or Alexander. I need a man with a name that inspires and gives one a feeling of confidence. Fear not, for I am reasonable and will consider most things. For those men who are wonderful human beings but unfortunately have appalling and distasteful names, there is always the option of officially changing your name to something much more civilised… I am sorry if you were named after your Grandfather, or if you had some traditional name carried down through the generations forced upon you, but that is neither my fault nor my problem, if you want any chance at all of being chosen to be in a relationship with me then the answer is obvious-‘ deed poll’.