I suppose I’d gotten used to it. After several decades with the same name, a simple keystroke error means that I am Stuart no more. It was a mistake that, once made, could never be undone. I was reading something on the Internet when a message popped up and informed me that if wanted to continue, I would have to log on. Perplexed, I pushed a button and was informed in no uncertain terms that I was not a registered user. Fearing either deportation or having my kneecaps broken, I entered my contact details in the hope that this would cure my illegal status. There was nary a moment to lose. Nervous seconds passed as the computer contemplated whether to accept my plea for clemency before a message appeared: Welcome Stuatr.
I suppose I’d gotten used to it. After several decades with the same name, a simple keystroke error means that I am Stuart no more. It was a mistake that, once made, could never be undone. I was reading something on the Internet when a message popped up and informed me that if wanted to continue, I would have to log on. Perplexed, I pushed a button and was informed in no uncertain terms that I was not a registered user. Fearing either deportation or having my kneecaps broken, I entered my contact details in the hope that this would cure my illegal status. There was nary a moment to lose. Nervous seconds passed as the computer contemplated whether to accept my plea for clemency before a message appeared: Welcome Stuatr.
With the damage well and truly done there was little I could do but accept the facts are they were. There were no grounds for protest or correction. It was as good as carved in stone. In my haste, I had managed to misspell my own name and there was no going back. For years I was Stuart. From this point on, I am Stuatr. Every morning I receive an email addressed to my new name. I have even started to answer to my mutated moniker. Truth is, I’m kind of getting used to it. There are, I think, some battles that are well and truly worth fighting. Others, however, invite surrender. It’s time to forsake the old nomenclature and embrace my new identity as Stuatr. Most people only get a new identity after ratting on the mob and in fear of their lives. I should count myself lucky.
Clearly, I’ve got work to do. Already I’ve amended my University degrees using nothing more than an extra-sturdy texta. Next, I plan to take a small strip of masking tape and place it over the front of my credit cards and license. All I need to do now is convince others to abandon my old name and accept the new. If Cassius Clay can become Mohammed Ali, then surely I can become Stuatr.
If that should prove too difficult, I can always adapt. I have no problem providing a little guidance by calling myself Stuatr (nee Stuart) or, for that matter, the Artist Formerly Known as Stuart. Frankly, I’ve never been that wild about my name anyway. My parents lacked creativity. I would have loved to have had a better, cooler name, like Thor or Snoop Dogg, but it wasn’t to be. Instead, I was lumbered with Stuart, which is far too prone to undignified shortening. ‘Stu’ should only ever be a kind of meal and the less said about the horror that is ‘Stu-balls’, frankly, the better. I find the latter deeply unflattering, but have been subjected at moments when I least expected.
Not long after I had started seeing Kate, we were invited to the wedding of one of her closest friends, Bec. Actually, it’s more complicated than that. Originally, only Kate had been invited. It was a little too early and I was regarded, if not with suspicion, then certainly as an unknown quantity. However, closer to the big day the situation must have been subject to reappraisal and, all of a sudden, I was invited to come. My mission was clear. As ever at the early stage of a relationship, it’s important to be able to attend these marquee events without falling over, vomiting or otherwise do anything else that would have the effect of bringing a fledgling romance to a screeching halt.
We had to get to the ceremony on time. This was crucial for a number of reasons, including that Kate was to be giving a reading. At weddings, you need to be quite judicious about where you sit. Too far up the back and you can barely see or hear anything. Sit right up the front and you displace members of the immediate family who are then likely to gossip about thoughtlessness for the rest of the evening. We, instead, chose somewhere about the middle and near the aisle.
The ceremony was lovely and Kate did a great job at the reading, although I would have preferred something from the Bible or some poetry rather than an excerpt from Jonathon Livingstone Seagull, but it was wonderful nevertheless. The bride and groom kissed and the entire room applauded. As the couple walked down the aisle, they were greeted by well-wishers. As someone who was invited by association, I knew to keep a sensible distance. But as the bride passed by, she leaned over and said, ‘Thanks for coming, Stu-balls.’
Outraged, I knocked over several members of the immediate family before inviting the bride to take it outside to the car park. Given that this was a reception centre, the car park was unusually large, meaning that we would be able to stand at opposite ends without the need for any kind of physical confrontation whatsoever. It was probably just as well. Hand to hand combat with the bride may have fatally cruelled my chances of getting cake. Ever since that day, I have wanted to change my name. Now, as fate would have it, that’s exactly what’s happened. Given my time over, I would have gone for something a little more exciting, but those with poor typing skills can’t be choosers. But, if nothing else, no one’s ever going to refer to ‘Stuatr-balls.’ Thank goodness for that.