What's in a name?

A little piece to highlight the ridiculously counterintuitive pronunciations we have for some words and names in English. Hopefully it will amuse you too.

So there I was sitting in the reception area waiting for my interview to begin.

I was surprisingly relaxed: this wasn't the usual type of interview. For the first time in my life I'd actually been head hunted. I'd received a phone call from a selective recruitment consultancy to tell me that this company were particularly interested, and after a couple of emails and a letter, they'd confirmed that the job was mine....

I'd received a further email the following day, arranging this meeting. They'd described it as more of a 'get to know' session than an interview, but I'd always been particularly cautious, and my subconscious self kept insisting that until I was officially on the payroll, the job wasn't really mine, and to me, this was still an interview.

I looked around the seating area in reception. There were two or three other guys there waiting for meetings, but each of them had what looked like full briefcases and laptop bags. One had a flip chart under his arm and another seemed to be overwhelmed by samples. They were all clearly salesmen. I realised that I must look a lot more relaxed than any of them did.

The lift doors opened and a young girl emerged. She went over to the reception desk for a moment and when she turned to face the seating area she was carrying one of those clip-on 'visitor' badges.

"Saint John?" she called. We all looked up, then the salesmen started looking from one to another. "Saint John," she repeated, "Is Saint John here?"

I stood up, and was immediately met by puzzled looks from the others present. The girl walked over to me. "Are you Saint John?" she asked.

"Sinjun," I replied, "It's pronounced Sinjun."

"What?"

"My name; it's spelled St John, but it's pronounced Sinjun."

"It's pronounced Saint John, as far as I've always been taught."

"When used as a name though, It's pronounced Sinjun."

"Fair enough. It's your name. Would you put this badge on, and follow me please?"

She led me toward the lift and we got in. I watched as she pressed the button. Fourteenth floor. Bugger! We'd be in the lift for quite a while then. I hated using a lift with a stranger. It always seemed so difficult to make conversation in a lift, though I always felt that bit more compelled to try.

We both stood facing the front and I gazed at the lights above the door as the numbers illuminated one by one. 4... 5... I shuffled my feet a little... 6... 7... The girl sighed... 8... Suddenly, the urge to converse was too much for me to ignore. And though I regretted it as soon as I opened my mouth, I came out with the most ridiculously inane thing I could possibly have said: "So, you work here then?" 

She glanced down from the numbers for a brief moment, turned her head to face me, just long enough for the dirty look she gave me to register, and replied "Well, yeah. Of course I do."

"No, I meant to say, how long have you worked here for?"

"Almost two years now," she said, "I'm Trudi's, Mrs James' PA." She emphasized the 'PA' bit as though she was really proud of it.

"It's Trudi James that I'm seeing," I said, latching on to the name I recognised, then realised what an absolutely pointless statement that was.

"Yes, I know," she replied, "That's why I'm taking you to her office."

I expected another dirty look at that point; this girl had clearly already decided that I was a bit of an idiot. Then the 'ding' of the lift sounded and I looked up at the numbers over the door: 14.

I was confused. I was sure I heard the whoosh of the doors opening, but I was still staring at the expanse of shiny steel facing me.

"This way." I heard the girls voice. I turned and realised that the lift had two sets of doors. The one's we'd been staring at all the way up here only opened on the ground floor. All the other floors were accessed via the doors that had opened behind me. She turned and began walking down the corridor as I followed behind her. She was shaking her head slowly from side to side, and I was sure I heard her mutter something like 'Dick'

She showed me into an office where a woman and a guy, both about my age were sitting. The woman stood as I entered and walked around the desk with her hand reaching out to shake mine. "Saint John?" she said.

Before I'd had chance to say anything, my escort spoke up. "No," she said, "It's sinjun, apparently." She emphasised the 'apparently' as though she was convinced I'd been lying to her.

"Thank you Janice," my host replied, "will you get us some coffee please?" Janice left by the door we'd just come through. Trudi, as I realised this was, turned to the man still seated: "This is Ben, my assistant," she said, "You and he will be working at the same level, my two lieutenants." She chuckled. She'd pronounced 'lieutenants' the American way, though in what was clearly a Manchester accent. I felt the urge to point out it was 'leFFtenants' but decided to hold my tongue.

Ben stretched out his arm to shake hands, though didn't bother to stand. "Sinjun? That's an odd name," he said, "especially spelled like that."

"Tell me about it," I replied and forced a chuckle. I wasn't really amused at all. I'd been through situations like this so many times.

"Talking of names, and spelling," Trudi said, "Your surname isn't going to be easy to remember either, or to spell. I've never met anyone with a triple barrelled name."

"I know," I said, "It's the result of having a father from a stuck-up English family, and a mother from a pretentious lowland Scottish family." I realised that I was being a little pretentious myself, feeling it necessary to point out that mum's family were not just Scots, but Lowland Scots.

Ben reached over and pulled Trudi's notepad toward him: "Marjorie-banks-Chol-monder-lee-bel-voowar" he read slowly. "About the only bit of that I'll remember is the Marjoribanks bit. Was that your mother's name then: Marjorie Banks?"

"It was my mother's surname," I replied, "and it's pronounced 'marshbanks'."

"So why's it spelt Marjorie Banks then?"

"That's all part of the pretentious clan culture my mum's family stems from," I said, "though my father's English family, the Chumly Beavers were no less snobbish. I just got stuck with both names."

"The Chumly Beavers?" laughed Ben, "sounds like a bloody cartoon series. What the hell is that?"

"It's the obscure pronunciation of my name again," I replied, "Cholmonderley-Belvoir is pronounced 'Chumly Beaver'."

Ben was doing his best to stifle a giggle by now. Trudi was looking puzzled. "So exactly how is your full name pronounced?" she asked.

"Well," I said, (I'd been through this routine so many, many times,) "it's spelled 'St John Marjoribanks-Cholmonderley-Belvoir' but it's pronounced 'Sinjun Marshbanks-Chumly-Beaver'. I know, it's a pain, but it's something I've had to live with all my life."

"What would you prefer us to call you?" Trudi asked as she smiled sympathetically.

"Sinjun will do nicely," I replied.

"Not BEAVER then?" chuckled Ben, "I quite like the idea of that. I don't know if I'll feel comfortable calling you Sinjun all the time, when I know it's really Saint John. Don't you have a middle name?"

"I do," I replied. I took a deep breath, knowing the confusion that was to come, so I pronounced my middle name as slowly as I could, "it's Dee-ell"

"And what does that stand for?" asked Trudi.

"It doesn't stand for anything," I replied, "It's just Dee-ell. It's actually spelled D-A-L-Z-I-E-L. It was my mother's father's name, lowland Scottish again."

"So he was called Dee-ell Marshbanks," Trudi said, "but it was spelled Dalziel Marjoribanks?"

She was getting the hang of it. "Yes," I replied, trying not to look too annoyed.

"Hey," Ben said as he chuckled, "Do you have a sister called Elsie?"

"No, I don't have any sisters," I replied, looking puzzled.

Ben laughed. "No," he said, "I thought if your parents gave you initials as middle names, they might have a daughter called Elsie - L C, get it?"

I forced a half laugh, "Oh yeah, very amusing. I haven't heard that one before." I actually hadn't. I'd heard hundreds of others, but nobody so far had been sad enough to make jokes about my name by making up girls names.

"That's enough Ben," said Trudi, "We'll get the hang of Sinjun's name soon enough." She grinned at me as she said 'Sinjun' as though she was really pleased with herself for saying it correctly. I smiled back and gave her a  congratulatory nod.

"Or even Ivy," Ben was chuckling to himself now, "You see: Ivy - I V. Are you with me?"

Janice knocked and walked in with a pot of coffee and cups on a tray. She put it down on a table at the side of the office.

"I know names can be quite embarrassing some times," Trudi said, "before I got married I was a Longbottom. I hated that. Janice has an embarrassing middle name too."

"Nobody," Janice said as she turned, "I repeat NOBODY, is ever going to learn what my middle name is. It's far too embarrassing."

"I'm a Pratt," Ben said.

I couldn't resist it. "You certainly seem like one to me Ben," I said. Trudi sniggered, Janice laughed out loud. Ben wasn't pleased but knew there was little he could do about my quip.

"I'd rather be a Pratt than a Beaver," he said, "Hey Jan. Did you know that Saint John Diesel here is a Beaver?"

"Can someone tell me where the gents is," I asked.

It was Trudi that replied. "They're down near the main office," she said, "Janice will show you the way."

I followed Janice out of the office and we walked further down the corridor to where it widened into a big open area where about fifteen or twenty people were working. A few of them looked up and one of them walked over and said hello to Janice. He looked at me. Janice decided to introduce us. 

"George," she said, "this is your new boss." George reached out and we shook hands. "This is George Phillips," Janice said, "and this is Mister Marshbanks-Chumly-Beaver."

"You pronounced it exactly right," I said to Janice after George had gone back to his desk.

"Did I? Oh good," she replied, "I was taken aback a bit by the Saint John, Sinjun bit, so while the coffee was brewing I got out your file and looked up each bit of your name on the internet."

I smiled. I was beginning to like this girl.

"And don't you bother about Ben," she said, "You were dead right about him being a prat. Never did anyone have a more fitting name than that!"