Your Call Is Important to Us

On Wednesday I managed to leave my Spada motorcycle helmet and gloves on a Y6 bus. I didn't actually realise this for a week because the Virago was back in the repair shop - again - so I had no immediate need for them. I'd left the helmet on the dining table and simply assumed Hay had moved it somewhere more appropriate. A motorcycle helmet is not generally regarded as a dining-room ornament.

Eventually I asked her where she'd put it. She hadn't. Bugger. Then I remembered the bus.

So, entirely my fault. First Bus didn't lose my helmet and gloves. I did. And having taken a week to notice, I wasn't exactly in a position to complain about anybody else's efficiency. But then I tried to report them missing, and embarked on an illuminating little journey through modern customer service in which I discovered that First Bus may or may not have my helmet, but it has certainly mislaid most of the means by which a customer can communicate with it.

There is, naturally, a website. The lost-property form asks all the obvious questions, but if you miss one of the compulsory fields it has a habit of resetting several of the fields you've already completed. One of those is the bus service, and you can't simply type Y6 back in. You have to scroll through a bloody great list of local services which, for reasons known only to whoever designed it, isn't even in alphabetical or numerical order. So each time the form resets, you have to go hunting for the Y6 all over again.

Somewhere in this process the system apparently decided that I was a bot. There is a certain irony in a computer making it unnecessarily difficult for a human being to complete a form and then concluding, from his repeated attempts to do so, that he must be a computer. My usual email address was now getting nowhere, so I tried my Gmail account instead. Dashlane inserted it automatically, as it always does, and the form announced that it wasn't a valid email address.

It is. Google and I have been successfully exchanging emails through it for years. But there isn't much point arguing with a web form. It has neither discretion nor curiosity, and nowhere to write, "Actually, old chap, you're wrong."

So I tried the telephone. Via another route I eventually found a number for First Bus lost property in Bristol, 0117 904 7252. I rang it and a recorded voice told me that the number had changed, helpfully supplying the replacement, 0117 929 1613. I rang that. It was disconnected.

Other attempts to telephone First Bus produced much the same result. There were systems, recorded messages and routes through them. What there wasn't was anybody I could actually talk to about my helmet. By this point the whole thing was beginning to resemble something designed by Kafka after a short course in digital transformation.

So I abandoned twenty-first-century communications and physically went to Bristol Bus and Coach Station, where there is a First Bus lost-property kiosk. Its shutters were down and there was nobody there. Eventually I went to the actual First Bus depot at Eastgate and, after the website, the bot detector, the invalid valid email address, the telephone system, the disconnected telephone number and the shuttered lost-property office, I discovered something apparently no longer considered an essential component of customer service.

A person.

And here's the interesting bit. He was helpful. He also sported a luxurious moustache rather like mine - obviously a man who gets things done, thinks I. He listened to what had happened, took my details and said they would be passed to the appropriate person.

He wasn't actually anything to do with customer service. He was a bus scheduler. So the only person in the entire First Bus customer-service labyrinth who managed to provide me with some customer service was a man whose job was scheduling buses. The technology had failed, the official routes had failed, and a bloke with a decent moustache and the ability to exercise a little judgement sorted it out in a few minutes.

Which is really the point. I am not a Luddite. I like digital systems. I bank online, shop online, run websites and use AI daily. For routine transactions, automation is generally faster, cheaper and more convenient than waiting for somebody to answer a telephone. But companies increasingly seem to have confused automating transactions with providing customer service. They aren't the same thing.

If everything goes according to the flowchart, you don't really need customer service. You fill in the form, the database does whatever databases do, and everyone gets on with their day. Customer service becomes important when something doesn't go according to the flowchart - an email address the system doesn't like, a question the designer didn't anticipate, or simply a problem that doesn't fit neatly into one of the boxes. That is precisely when you need a human being.

Having finally reported my helmet, I decided the experience justified a complaint. So I went to the First Bus complaints website, where we reach the really rather magnificent part. The complaints system wants you to choose what you're complaining about: a service, a timetable, a member of staff, and various other things First Bus has anticipated that you might wish to complain about.

What I couldn't find was any sensible way of saying, "Your customer-service system doesn't work."

The complaints system, in other words, appears to allow you to make the complaints that the complaints system has been designed to receive. If your complaint is about the complaints system itself, you're stuffed.

So yesterday I did something I haven't needed to do to a large company for years. I wrote a letter. On paper. I put it in an envelope and sent it to First Bus in Bristol, with another copy to the Chief Executive's Office of FirstGroup in Aberdeen. There is something wonderfully perverse about having to use nineteenth-century communications to complain about the shortcomings of twenty-first-century customer service.

And this isn't really about First Bus. They merely provided an unusually complete demonstration of something that is happening everywhere. Businesses quite reasonably discovered that digital technology could remove enormous amounts of routine work. Then somebody made the conceptual leap that because most customers could now serve themselves, customer service itself could largely disappear.

The result works beautifully until it doesn't. Then the customer discovers that the telephone number has vanished, the chatbot can answer only the questions it has been programmed to recognise, the form insists that reality is invalid, and every route eventually leads back to the same system that couldn't deal with the problem in the first place.

Somewhere behind all this there are still people. I know because I eventually found one, and he solved in a few minutes what the systems supposedly designed to help me could not.

As for the Spada helmet and gloves, I've heard nothing yet, which is fair enough. I took a week to notice I'd lost them.

But in looking for them, I discovered something rather larger that appears to have gone missing.

Customer service.

The Right to Be a Bloody Nuisance

I've noticed something on the narrow country lanes around here. Your average occasional cyclist is generally quite considerate. Middle-aged bloke on a hybrid, perhaps, out for a bit of exercise rather than attempting to qualify for the Tour de France. He hears a car behind him, spots a gateway or a slightly wider bit of road, pulls over for 10 seconds, gives you a wave and carries on.

Nobody dies. Nobody's rights have been infringed. Civilisation survives.

Then there is the lycra-clad variety.

I followed one for the best part of 2 miles the other day at about 20 mph. Narrow lane, hedges either side, nowhere safe to pass. He knew I was there. There were places where he could have stopped for a few seconds and let me through. He didn't.

Now, before somebody reaches excitedly for the Highway Code, I know perfectly well that he had every right to be there. He is traffic. I have to wait until there is enough room to pass safely. I wasn't going to squeeze past him with my wing mirror brushing his elbow merely because I happened to have an engine.

But that's not really the point.

I pull over for horses. If I meet a rider on one of these lanes, I'll stop or find somewhere to tuck the car in and let them through. A horse is a large, occasionally unpredictable animal, and its rider has quite enough to worry about without me insisting on exercising every last inch of my legal entitlement to the highway.

I wait for walkers. I wait behind cyclists until I can pass them safely. I don't sit 2 feet behind somebody revving the engine because they're delaying me.

It's called courtesy. And courtesy works both ways.

That's what seems to have been lost somewhere along the way. We've confused having a right with having no obligation to consider anyone else. "I am entitled to do this" has somehow become the complete argument.

Of course, being stuck behind a cyclist for 2 miles at 20 mph isn't exactly the retreat from Dunkirk. It takes 6 minutes. I'll survive. But that's precisely what makes the whole thing so bloody irritating. My 6-minute crawl could have been avoided by him spending perhaps 10 seconds pulling into a gateway. He loses virtually nothing. I get on my way. We might even exchange a wave.

Instead, we conduct a small constitutional seminar on the rights of cyclists for the next 2 miles.

And I don't actually think this is particularly about bicycles. It's part of something wider. We've become terribly good at knowing our rights and rather less interested in the little accommodations that make sharing space with other human beings bearable.

The bloke on the hybrid seems to understand this instinctively. So does the horse rider who waves when you've stopped for them. So does the driver who waits rather than forcing his way through.

Somewhere inside the lycra, however, there occasionally appears to be a High Court judge delivering a landmark ruling on his absolute right to maintain 20 mph until further notice.

And yes, mate, you're quite right, you are entitled to hold me up, but you don't have to be a bloody nuisance about it.

Falling Over, Properly

I have recently discovered that one of the remedies for age-related loss of balance is, apparently, garden parkour. Not proper parkour, obviously. Nobody is suggesting that pensioners should be vaulting walls, leaping over bollards and launching themselves off the roof of the shed. 

The idea is rather more modest. You get out on the grass, practise going off balance, get down on the ground, roll around a bit, learn how to fall, then get back up again without behaving as though the event requires an ambulance and a family conference.

It makes a certain amount of sense. Part of the problem with getting older is not just that balance declines. Confidence declines with it. You become cautious, then stiff, then more cautious still. Eventually a patch of uneven lawn starts to look like difficult terrain.

The snag is that grass is still quite hard, which led me to a better idea. Ball pits.

Just up the road from us is a place called My Little Town, an indoor play area for small children with numerous ball pits and all the usual soft-play apparatus. The building used to be a 2nd hand car dealership, with a large indoor showroom area, which is presumably precisely why it suited conversion to soft play. It is now almost exactly what I need. Padded surfaces, soft obstacles and somewhere I can fall over repeatedly without cracking my head on a paving slab.

There is, however, a fairly obvious difficulty. I cannot really turn up on my own. A 71-year-old man presenting himself at the desk of a children’s soft-play centre and announcing that he would like half an hour in the ball pit would probably provoke a response rather different from, “Certainly, sir. Socks are compulsory.”

So I would have to find somebody with small children and persuade them to take me. Think about that conversation. “Any chance I could come with you next time you take the kids to My Little Town?” Why? “I want to roll around in the ball pit.”

There would probably then be a pause.

I could explain proprioception. I could explain loss of confidence after a wobble. I could even produce evidence about controlled falling and balance training. None of this, I suspect, would improve matters.

My Little Town gets round one of the bigger practical problems of running a children’s play centre by making parents responsible for supervising their own children. That means the staff are not acting as childminders, so they do not all have to be DBS checked, and it also shifts a fair chunk of the day-to-day supervisory responsibility back onto Mum and Dad. The business still has to provide safe premises and safe equipment, obviously, but little Tarquin deciding to launch himself backwards into a ball pit is largely a parental problem.

Which raises an interesting question in my case. If I only gain admission by attaching myself to somebody else’s family, does that parent then become responsible for supervising me as well? Would somebody have to say, “Phil, stop throwing the balls”? If I vanished into one of the tunnels, would they be obliged to come looking for me? And if I became overexcited and went head-first down the slide, at what point would somebody quietly call my wife?

There is also the possibility that another parent would notice an elderly man apparently having the time of his life in the middle of the ball pit and ask the perfectly reasonable question: “Whose is he?” At which point my borrowed parent would have to raise a hand and say, “He’s with us.”

That could be the precise moment at which Social Services, the police and somebody from adult safeguarding all arrived together.

Which is why I have decided the whole thing needs turning around. My Big Town.

Exactly the same principle as My Little Town, but for pensioners. A proper indoor soft-play centre designed for people whose knees no longer regard getting down on the floor as the easy part. Ball pits for controlled falling, foam blocks to climb over, soft ramps for balance work and padded floors for those moments when enthusiasm overtakes judgement.

The whole thing would be aimed at restoring something older people gradually lose without quite noticing - confidence in movement. And, crucially, dignity would be temporarily suspended on entry. You would turn up in comfortable clothes, take your shoes off and spend 40 minutes rolling around in plastic balls, crawling over padded obstacles and rediscovering physical movements last attempted when Harold Wilson was Prime Minister.

There would, of course, have to be medical cover. Not just a first-aid box and somebody who once did a course at work. St John Ambulance, properly stationed in the corner, with a defibrillator prominently mounted on the wall. Not because anything would necessarily go wrong, but because the sight of 30 pensioners gambolling in a ball pit would make all of this seem less like an optional extra and more like responsible management.

And beside them, not a coffee machine. Absolutely not. An independent barista and cake maker.

Proper coffee, made properly, with a decent slice of cake afterwards. There is no point restoring confidence in movement if the reward is instant coffee from a machine and a wrapped flapjack with the texture of roofing felt. In fact, this could be part of the business model. Twenty minutes in the ball pit, a controlled roll off the foam ramp, then a flat white and a slice of Victoria sponge while you discuss whether Brian, 78, really ought to have attempted the tunnel backwards.

That is rehabilitation I could commit to.

The waiver would need careful wording. Participants acknowledge that climbing, crawling, falling over and behaving like a 7-year-old may result in bruising, embarrassment or an unscheduled conversation about blood pressure.

There would also have to be an advanced section for people who had completed the introductory course and were now considered sufficiently competent to fall over with confidence. A slightly deeper ball pit, perhaps. More difficult foam obstacles. And, for the truly committed, pensioner wrestling.

Not WWE pensioner wrestling. Nobody is being hit over the head with a folding chair and I do not want an 82-year-old coming off the top rope. I mean supervised grappling on thick mats, learning how to shift weight, roll out of awkward positions and recover balance while another pensioner tries, in a civilised and age-appropriate manner, to interfere. No gouging, no spitting, no punching.

Although I can already see how it would go.

Two sensible retired accountants would begin by practising controlled weight transfer. Five minutes later one of them would discover a competitive streak he had not used since 1987 and somebody would be trying to apply a half-nelson while St John Ambulance quietly moved the defibrillator 6 feet closer.

There would clearly have to be grades. Beginner Ball Pit. Intermediate Falling Over. Advanced Pensioner Wrestling.

The certificate would be magnificent.

“Congratulations. You are now qualified to be pushed over by Derek.”

Eventually, of course, somebody would conduct a proper study and discover that all this nonsense actually worked. Falls would reduce. Confidence would improve. People would become more mobile, and getting up off the floor would cease to be treated as an emergency procedure.

Then the NHS would become involved.

At that point My Big Town would have to be renamed the Centre for Dynamic Proprioceptive Rehabilitation, because no publicly funded health programme can admit that the treatment consists largely of pensioners rolling around in a ball pit, wrestling each other on padded mats, followed by coffee and cake. There would be referral forms, outcome measures and somebody would eventually devise a 12-point Ball Pit Functional Mobility Assessment.

The wrestling would become “assisted resistance-based postural recovery”. The cake would almost certainly be removed on nutritional grounds. And by then the whole original point would have been forgotten.

Children spend their early years falling over, climbing things, rolling around and getting back up again. Older people spend theirs trying desperately not to. Perhaps we have got that slightly wrong.

My Big Town. Soft play for pensioners, proper coffee and cake, pensioner wrestling for the advanced pupils, St John Ambulance standing by and a defibrillator on the wall. Perhaps the idea isn't stupid.

 

 

The Garage Has Eaten My Washers

I wanted 2 washers. That was the entire job. Nothing complicated, nothing remotely deserving of an afternoon. I have a box of assorted washers somewhere in the garage or workshop. I know I have it because I have used it often enough, and because buying a box of assorted washers is exactly the sort of sensible thing you do so that, when you need 2 washers, you can simply go and get them.

 
Except the box had vanished.

I looked where it normally lives, then in the places where I might reasonably have moved it. After that the search became progressively less rational, because garages encourage that sort of thing. You start with some confidence in your own filing system and end up opening drawers that have no conceivable connection with the object you are looking for, just in case some previous version of yourself had a moment of inspiration that now looks indistinguishable from idiocy.

Still no washer box, so I decided to make an espresso and take it into the garage while I continued looking. This seemed civilised enough. There is no reason why the disappearance of a box of washers should also deprive me of coffee.

A little later I went back into the kitchen and realised I had left the cup in the garage. So I went back to fetch it and discovered that the cup had now disappeared as well.

This was rather more difficult to explain. A washer box can vanish in a garage because there are boxes everywhere and because things migrate. But the espresso cup is about the size of an egg cup and I had been drinking from it only minutes earlier. I knew roughly where I had been standing. It should have been one of the easier objects in the building to locate.

Apparently not.

I carried on looking for the washer box and eventually opened a drawer. There, for reasons entirely beyond me, was the espresso cup. I have absolutely no recollection of putting it there. At some point I had evidently decided that a workshop drawer was a perfectly sensible temporary home for crockery, and had done so without the event making enough impression on my brain to survive for more than a few minutes.

This, I think, is the real nature of garages. You go in with a clear purpose, but the place interferes with the chain of thought. Something catches your eye, which reminds you of another job, and before long the original object has become merely one unresolved matter among several. The garage itself seems to operate on a different filing system, in which things are never exactly lost but are placed somewhere you would never think to look until you are searching for something else.

The most infuriating part is that I know the washer box will eventually turn up. It will probably be somewhere perfectly visible, in a place I have already searched more than once. I will stare at it for several seconds and wonder how on earth I failed to see it before.

Meanwhile, the original job remains undone.

I went into the garage wanting 2 washers. I came out having discovered that I am apparently capable of filing an espresso cup in a drawer.

The washer box is still missing.

Frightened of Our Own Shadows

I was looking at these new AI glasses the other day. Apparently they're "pervert glasses". They can see what you're looking at, take photographs and record video. This, apparently, is deeply worrying.

I can't get terribly excited about it. We've all been walking around with cameras in our pockets for 20 years. Before that we had cameras. Before that we had eyes and memories.

And we've managed to make something potentially rather useful sound grubby. For someone with impaired vision, glasses that can describe what's in front of them, read a sign or menu and help them understand their surroundings aren't "pervert glasses". They're potentially transformative.

But apparently the camera is the problem.

Then there are children. Put a photograph online with a child somewhere in the background and there's a fair chance the child's face will be fuzzed out. Why? What precisely are we protecting the child from?

If somebody photographs a 7-year-old child walking down the street, what has actually happened to that child? Nothing. If somebody harms or interferes with that child, that's an entirely different matter. Somewhere along the way we seem to have confused the possibility of harm with harm itself.

And the same children increasingly have to be ferried to school and back. The school gates become clogged with cars carrying children who, a generation or two ago, would simply have walked or cycled. We protect them from the perceived dangers of travelling independently by putting more cars around schools, while removing some of the independence that teaches children how to judge risk for themselves.

There are perfectly good reasons for protecting children's identities in particular circumstances. Court proceedings, vulnerable children, identifying information, stalking and exploitation are obvious examples. But those exceptional circumstances seem to have escaped their boundaries and become a general doctrine that being seen is somehow dangerous.

Children once walked to school, climbed trees, disappeared on bicycles and came home for tea. Some of what we accepted was undoubtedly too risky. We changed things, and some children are alive today because we did.

But we didn't stop there.

We've developed a peculiar precautionary culture in which almost any conceivable risk demands a precaution, regardless of how improbable the risk is or whether the precaution achieves anything. And institutions have every incentive to go along with it. Nobody gets sacked for unnecessarily blurring a child's face. They might get sacked if they don't and something subsequently goes wrong.

Perhaps this is simply what happens when you get older. You remember the world before today's conventions became conventions, while younger people simply inherit them as normal. There's also the uncomfortable fact that my generation remembers the freedoms rather better than the children who didn't survive them.

So I'm not arguing for some mythical 1960s paradise where children played with asbestos while their parents drove home drunk without seatbelts.

I'm wondering whether, somewhere between sensible protection and eliminating every imaginable danger, we've lost our ability to distinguish risk from threat, observation from intrusion, and precaution from theatre.

Perhaps I'm just getting old.

Or perhaps we've become frightened of our own shadows.

Where Are the Andy Burnhams?

My local Waitrose is a communications dead zone.

I don't mean the signal is a bit iffy, or that occasionally WhatsApp takes a few seconds to send. I mean that once you get properly inside the place, your expensive modern smartphone more or less ceases to be a communications device.

Normally this wouldn't particularly bother me. I'm in Waitrose to buy food, not conduct international diplomacy. Except that my wife and I have, without ever consciously deciding to do so, developed a remarkably efficient remote shopping support system.

I can't find something. I send her a photograph of the shelves. She tells me where it is.

This happens particularly often with Charlie Bigham ready meals, which for reasons that are no longer terribly important we call Andy Burnhams. Thus a perfectly normal conversation in our household might include the sentence, Where are the Andy Burnhams? without suggesting that the Mayor of Greater Manchester has been chopped into portions and put next to the dauphinoise potatoes.

The system works extremely well. Or rather, it works everywhere except Waitrose.

I stand in the chilled-food aisle looking for a particular Andy Burnham. I can't find it. My wife assures me they sell it. I assure her they don't. Experience should by now have taught me that this is a dangerous position to take, because quite often the thing I'm insisting isn't there is actually somewhere within my field of vision.

So I produce the evidence.

I photograph the shelves.

And nothing happens.

The photograph sits there stubbornly refusing to leave the building because Waitrose appears to have been constructed to the communications specifications of a Cold War nuclear bunker.

I therefore have to abandon the scene of the investigation and walk towards the tills. Somewhere around the front of the shop, usually as I approach the checkouts, the outside world suddenly reappears. Messages arrive. WhatsApp wakes up. My photograph finally departs.

But I can't now return to the aisle because I need the verdict. So I hang around near the tills, apparently doing nothing, waiting for my wife to examine the photographic evidence.

Eventually the reply arrives.

It's there. I can see it in the photograph.

And, with a sinking sense of inevitability, I walk back across Waitrose and discover that she is correct. There is the bloody Andy Burnham, sitting more or less where I had been looking in the first place.

I should add that I'm not a habitual Waitrose shopper anyway. I'm much more Lidl or Aldi. Waitrose is usually somewhere I go because they have something specific I want, which makes being cut off from civilisation while I'm there even more irritating.

This would merely be one of those minor marital rituals were it not for the fact that supermarkets themselves now expect us to shop with our phones. Offers are loaded onto apps, loyalty cards are digital, shopping lists are shared and products are checked online.

The phone is no longer incidental. It is part of the machinery.

Which makes it slightly absurd to operate a building in which mobile reception more or less disappears.

There is, of course, an astonishingly advanced technological solution to this problem. Wi-Fi.

If your shop kills the mobile signal, the customer Wi-Fi should simply work. No faffing about, no elaborate sign-in process, no mysterious dead patches. Just enough connectivity to let the systems you encourage customers to use actually function.

This isn't a great social injustice. I'm not proposing a parliamentary inquiry. Civilisation will probably survive even if Waitrose continues to block the outside world.

But somewhere in that chilled-food aisle there will again be an Andy Burnham sitting directly in front of me.

And when that happens, I need to be able to send my wife a photograph so that she can tell me I can't see what's in front of my own eyes.

Whatever Happened to Gyrth?

A follow-on from yesterday's post on names - we think of Alfred, Harold, Edward and Edmund as perfectly normal English names. But Gyrth? Tostig? Wulfnoth? Leofwine? Those sound as though the parents have either joined a re-enactment society or lost a bet.

Which is odd, because there is nothing intrinsically more normal about Alfred than Gyrth. They are all Anglo-Saxon names. Some simply survived, or were later dragged back into fashion, while the others were abandoned by the roadside.

1066 did much of the damage. The Normans did not just take the land. They changed the naming habits too. William, Robert, Richard and Henry became fashionable while much of the old English repertoire faded away.

Edward survived because Edward the Confessor became a saint and later kings kept the name alive. Alfred was revived when the Victorians rediscovered Alfred the Great and decided he was exactly the sort of industrious, cake-burning national hero they wanted. Harold got the tragic-last-English-king treatment.

Gyrth had no such luck. He died at Hastings too, but lacked top billing.

Tostig was probably beyond saving anyway, having helped Harald Hardrada invade England. Not ideal nursery material.

Wulfnoth simply sounds, to modern ears, like something you would ask the pharmacist about.

That is the whole trick. We confuse familiarity with normality. Had the Victorians taken a shine to Gyrth, there would now be retired accountants called Gyrth and nobody would think twice. Instead Alfred is respectable, Harold is old-fashioned and Gyrth sounds ridiculous.

Not because it is.

Because history forgot to keep saying it.

Why Not 2 p.m.?

I was listening to the radio the other day when one of the contributors was introduced as Tuesday. My first thought was, “Well, that’s an odd name.” Then I remembered the actress Tuesday Weld. And of course there’s Wednesday Addams, who’s probably the most famous Wednesday in fiction.

Once you start thinking about it, it’s surprisingly common. There are Aprils, Mays, Junes and the occasional August. We happily accept people being named after bits of the calendar, as though that’s the most natural thing in the world.

And then there’s Tuppence Middleton, which rather broadens the field. Tuppence isn’t a day, or a month, or even a season. It’s an obsolete sum of money. At which point you begin to wonder whether there are any rules at all.

So why stop at days and months? Why not times?

Why shouldn’t somebody be called 2 p.m.? It has a certain ring to it. “This is my daughter, 2 p.m. She’s starting school in September.” Nobody would bat an eyelid at September being the child, but apparently it’s perfectly acceptable as the month in which 2 p.m. starts school.

And once 2 p.m. has broken the ice, there’s really no reason to stop. Quarter Past Three has a slightly aristocratic air to it. Half Past Eight sounds dependable, possibly an accountant. Midnight is already halfway to being a name, while Noon is surely just waiting for the right celebrity parent to discover it.

Then we could revisit the days of the week. Tuesday and Wednesday have established a bridgehead, but what has poor Thursday done wrong? Friday has possibilities. Sunday sounds rather genteel. Monday, admittedly, would be a difficult burden to place on a newborn child.

The months are equally unfair. April, May and June have been admitted to polite society. August has got through the door, although perhaps more often as a male name. But where are January, February, October, November and December? December in particular sounds perfectly plausible. “December, your dinner’s ready.” I can hear it now.

And if Tuppence is allowed, the possibilities become almost limitless. We could revive Ha’penny. Perhaps Guinea for parents with grander aspirations. There must surely be room for Shilling, although I suspect young Farthing might have a difficult time at school.

Perhaps in fifty years’ time nobody will think anything of meeting someone called 4.30 Thursday afternoon. And when we’re introduced, we’ll smile politely and say, “Oh, that’s a lovely name.”

Because apparently Tuesday is.