It’s Friday, have a video to accompany this. I know it’s not strictly the same lyrics, but there’s never, ever an excuse not to play Blink 182.

Or, if Rihanna is more your cup of tea…

Um, as I was saying. When I was younger, my name seemed pretty darn unique. I didn’t meet another Polly until I was well into junior school (even then, she was a Polley, bleh!), and it was not once to be found in any of the racks of named paraphernalia. Holly? Sure. Molly? Yep. Poppy? By the ton. No “Polly” mug for me, though. Call it projecting, or sulking I suppose, but it also seemed that P was a relatively uncommon initial. Now, I happen to think that my name is fabulous, kettle and pocket-related jokes aside, so it seems that I’m making up for it in my old age.

My monogrammed Cambridge satchel is an absolute staple for university, but on days like Monday where I can’t bring myself to fill it to overflowing with files…a new bag is called for, roomy enough to fit my folders, Filofax and notebook.

If I felt like reminding people that my name is Polly, not Holly, in a more subtle way, I could always reach for this. By subtle, I mean it’s a tiny charm on a very noisy bracelet, so maybe only by my standards.

I suppose if you really adored your name, you could take a leaf out of the book of the most irritating character on television, Miss Carrie Bradshaw. That would have to be a real onomastic emergency, though. Or an identity crisis.