I'm me. And if you don't like it, you can get stuffed
STARTING this blog has raised the issue of what I should call myself.
Not whether I should adopt some mysterious nome de plume, but whether I should take on the surname of my new husband.
Saddled with a name that has been misheard as Cora Lout, Laura Cloud and Nora Trout, you might think I would be keen to ditch it.
The Italian softness of ‘Laura Manzi’ certainly rolls off the tongue better.
But for me, especially as a journalist, my name is a vital to my sense of identity.
Like a stick of Brighton rock, the name Clout runs right through me.
To give it up at the altar seems so terribly old-fashioned, part of a tradition in which women were chattels to be handed to their new ‘owners’.
There is the double-barreled option of course (facetious friends have also suggested Cloumanzi and Manlout), but I can’t help but feel it sounds pretentious.
I could instead be Mrs Manzi at the school gates and Ms Clout at work – but I fear troubled encounters with bank managers or passport inspectors when I can’t remember exactly which one I am.
So, sorry husband dearest, for the moment I will remain yours, punchily, Laura Clout.