What's in a name?

My name is Rachel Wilcock.  There is nothing unknown about this.  My name isn’t that hard to hear or spell or write and yet there are problems…

More often than not if I introduce myself as Rachel I have to repeat myself, not in Northern Ireland though, no, in Northern Ireland I am understood right away.  My people, they understand. 

Rita? Rage…what? Rebecca?  In Kenya I spent some time correcting being called Rita but to no avail…so it stuck.  Rita Wilcock.  Solves the problem.

Then there’s the surname…

Wilcock is not too common a name but it has been heard before…Wilcox, Wilco, Wilcoco ( my personal favourite) have all been used and yet recently I encountered one of the more embarrassing ways to highlight your name.

I went to visit a new church and was welcomed by the most charming older couple who instantly adopted me.  I think they took my accent to mean I had only just stepped off the boat…from the famine…but nonetheless they were charming. 

Trying to get to grips with who I was and where I was from they asked for my name…

“Rachel Wilcock” I replied.

The service had not started but there was a general sense of reflective thinking in the air.

Silence as they absorb this information.

He queries, “Right, I see…Rachel Wilcox” he is really sounding it out, trying to place it, “…is that cox with an x or a ck?”

Before I can speak she responds, “No it’s Rachel Wilcock darling”.

“Cox?” he asks.

I have forgotten to mention that he is hard of hearing so she increases in volume.

“No, cock darling”, she corrects.

I stand mute, aware that the word they are debating may prove quite controversial in such a quiet place.

She continues, “C-O-C-K…cock darling, Rachel WilCOCK!”

“Oh Wilcock…oh!” he grins. “Oh my!”

He is now aware, as I am, that they have both been screaming 'cock' for about 3 minutes in a rather subdued church scene.  Although part of me is sure he is just laughing at my name!

Shut that door...

I have lived in London for 7 years and in that time one can expect to be victim to some sort of crime.  In light of recent events it led me to think of such times.

Mine was merely a theft.  Of my flat.  A wee flat in Finsbury Park that was housed by three lovely girls, yes, I speak of myself and two others.  It was a place that had seen us laugh many a time, and cry but a few times…we were girls!  A place that had housed many a dinner party and some guests, including my crutches.  Yes friends, I was once victim to a broken foot.  Fifth metatarsal, same as David Beckham.  Mine however was not the result of a game of football.  No.  Something far more severe…a three legged race.

Anyway, our flat was burgled, it happens.  They stole from us all three, removed the entire lock from our flat door, trundled through the flat, picked up what they wanted and left.  We came back in dribs and drabs and then the obligatory tears and police investigation. 

The following morning I had to pop to the doctors down the road to get my foot checked…remember it had broken!  So some friends came round to await the arrival of the door man…we were getting a Banham lock, the lock of all locks - unbreakable, unbeatable.  No one can beat a Banham door.

Delighted to be getting such a door I skipped with one foot back from the doctors.  I entered the house, hopped up the steps…we were on the first floor.  Banham man was in the throws of saving another day.  I imagined theme tunes and a cape…I chatted with my friends, and then offered Banham man a cup of tea.  He refused.  Banham men don’t drink tea, they are heroes.  Unconvinced I had established quite enough of a relationship with this Banham man I decided to impress him with some of my wit…

“So…”

Dramatic pause…

“Do you laugh in the face of other doors…?”

Ready to encounter his rip roaring laugh, he turned to me slowly, and said without moving his face,

“No”

There was an awkward silence. 

The conversation was over. 

Then in the distance I heard laughter.  Thank God – someone, somewhere had heard this great witticism.

It came from the kitchen where two people had witnessed the worst comedy moment. 

But you see I had broken my foot.  This was a very tough time.  I was under house arrest and had committed no crime.  I found things hilarious that my able footed friends just didn’t laugh at.  Statements of “Has anyone seen my foot?” currently encased in a huge plastic foot, went unaccepted.  Telling my housemates I’d spent my day running when they returned from work didn’t raise much of a smile either.  It was a lonely laughing time.

Intent on catching the criminals who had entered our flat the police came round later that evening to take fingerprints.  They were a yet unwritten comedy duo.  Policeman 1 (PM1) was showing Policeman 2 (PM2) the ropes, giving him tips on how to get a fingerprint and how to charm three doorless women(!) They then took our fingerprints to check they got the culprit. 

Delighted with themselves they exclaimed they’d found a fingerprint bang in the middle of the door.  Thrilled we thought our jewels would soon to be returned.  Until PM1 told us that it was in fact my thumb print bang in the centre of the door…I have since taken lessons in how to unlock a door.

So lessons in crime:

Don’t joke with door fixing men…they have no time for humour.
For house arrest read house rest...broken foot made me work from home.

When talking about crime how many times can you mention a broken foot?