|My Name is Muriel And I am not related to your great-grandmother
Picture by Alejandra Mioral, MUAH by Anastasia parquet
If one day you meet me in London, don’t be surprised if I say that my name is Julia. I really wished I had changed my name to Julia when we moved here. No, honestly. Because every time I say that my name is Muriel, here is the reaction I get:
” Oh really? My great-great-grandmother used to be a Muriel too. She had a sister called Mildred who remained a spinster all her life. They lived together after the death of my great-great-grandfather. They both died in 1925, a week apart. Can you believe it?”
Great. You have just made my day.
A former British colleague even took it one step further when, after a couple of pints, he told me that he couldn’t date a Muriel because it was the name of his gran. He couldn’t sleep with a woman who had the same name than his beloved gran, right?
Good thing I didn’t fancy him one bit. Seriously, how dare he?
His name was Alastair, which I must admit I found a bit snobby. Actually, initially I couldn’t get his name right, and thought he was the ‘Up-the-Stairs’ guy. I realised a bit later that he wasn’t the guy up the stairs, but that his first name was Alastair. Life is a big misunderstanding. At least I kept my mouth shut (until now, that is). Vengeance is a dish best served cold. Cheers to you, Alastair!
To top it up, I hate the way people call me MEOWrial over here. First of all, because it sounds a bit like a meowing cat, and also because in French you stress the second syllable, not the first one. It is muriEL, not MEOWrial.
This means that, when I go to Starbucks or when I am asked for my name, I say Julia. Julia is so much easier, right? Well, so I thought. But this morning, when I said that my name was Julia, they wrote Jules.
I can’t win.