When I was 11, I wanted to ditch my dreary name John, and improve my life by taking the first name ''Biggles''.
Biggles Lapsley. Whyever not?
Biggles was a fellow of bold distinction, a boys' book fighter pilot who was my hero. A moniker such as Biggles would beat the tripe out of John, the tedious forename foisted on the second Lapsley son.
The literati will best remember Captain W.E. Johns' 104 Biggles books for their lyrical use of the English language.
''Biggles showed his teeth in a mirthless smile'' is typically sublime. The full title of the man whose name I wanted was Flying Officer James ''Biggles'' Bigglesworth, DSO, DFC and MC. Most of us have wished for better names and, at 11, still pure of heart, a Biggles future seemed reasonable.
I had an Aussie friend who, at this same age, borrowed a large hat and ''improved'' himself from Gordon to Slim. This did him no harm whatever - in fact it gave him faith in his calling. As a country singer, Slim recorded a cartload of gold albums, something I couldn't imagine from a Gordy.
At 15, filled with sullen contempt for our now cringeworthy parents, we resent their choices even more bitterly. But it's true their idiocy can be breath taking. Imagine being Sunday Rose, the daughter of Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban.
Couldn't these hopelessly uncool blockheads see their child was doomed to be a Sunday Roast?We know the choice of first names is driven by fashion. Stuff, the intellectuals' website, divulges that the current top three for baby Kiwi girls are Charlotte, Olivia and (dear God) Isla.
Boys brought howling to the font are most frequently Oliver, Jack or James. All harmless enough, although I feel for the floods of little Noahs - this name holds seventh place.
When I was born, the name John was all the rage. New mothers thought John awfully cool. But we were so numerous, prostitutes began calling their clients johns.
Blokes dumped by mail received Dear Johns, the toilet became the john and Grandpa's warm underpants were long johns. In my class at school, no less than six raised our hands to John. I once got caned as the wrong John.
I think you see why, all in all, a John may tire of being John? Biggles, a name to aspire to, was not only revered by 11 year old boys. Charlie Brown's dog Snoopy snoozed on his kennel, lost in his Biggles dreams. Snoopy too flew his Sopwith Camel against the Red Baron and the Hun.
Many may suspect the name Biggles would become a cross to bear through life. But apply reason, and you will understand its pluses far exceed the minuses.
Biggles would prove an impressive door opener. All his job applications would reach the final cut, because no interviewer could miss the chance of boasting they'd met a man called Biggles.
Biggles would be instantly hired by any air force, if British Airways hadn't grabbed him first. The church too would hold good prospects for advancement. Its hierarchy would see that in a troubled parish, a visit from Bishop Biggles would quickly fill both pews and collection plates.
And Biggles would do well with the girls.
''Can I shout you a pink gin - the name's Biggles,'' makes a very snappy pick up line.
I don't have a son, so I have been spared a maternity ward conversation that would have unfolded thus: ''Isn't he the sweetest little boy?'' sighed his mother.
''Should we call him Hamish?''
''Hamish? That's very nice, but we can't. My heart is set on Biggles.''
''Biggles?'' she'd boggle.
''Bugger Biggles. It will never do.''
''But it has to. I put Biggles Lapsley down on the Christ's waiting list six years ago. If we call him Hamish, Biggles will lose his place in the queue.''
I've just had a grandchild arrive - but she's a Georgia. She'll never know the opportunity that's been missed.
John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.