Manchester Hospital, 1978.
“Ah, just a minute sir, there’s an error here on the birth certificate. You’ve misspelled ‘Dennis’.”
“That’s not a mistake, Doc. No son of mine will be called Dennis. Bloody poofter name. I want it just as I’ve written it there. Two Es, one N.”
“But sir… you can’t call a child that.”
“I can, and I bloody well will. Just sign the certificate.”
“But think about what the other children will say about your boy.”
“Other children? Are you a bloody coward? I’m the boy’s father, and I will name him.”
“But surely—”
“But nothing! I’ve made my decision… Now sign that birth certificate, or I’ll punch you fair in the mouth.”
“Sigh…”
“And stop saying, ‘Sigh’! Either sigh, or say nothing. If you don’t know how to sigh… just roll your eyes or something. I’ll know what you mean.”
“Fine. There, I’m signing the certificate. It’s official. Two Es, one N. Just the way you wanted it. Good luck, kid.”
“He doesn’t need luck, Doc. Not with a strong name like Deenis. Oh, bloody hell—I just heard it.”
© 2020 MILES VENISON ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Leave a Reply