"Don't Call Me Dave."


I hate being called Dave.

My dislike for it is, admittedly, inconsistent. I’m happy for some people to shorten my name, when others doing it will make me shudder. It’s a complicated and finely nuanced situation, worthy of a line chart. So here it is.



(I spent the morning trying to draw that on Excel, before giving in. I went to WHSmith to buy a pad of graph paper, though, which shows commitment.) 

It’s very complicated. You could say, loosely speaking, that my close friends call me David and my more casual acquaintances call me Dave, but even that doesn’t add up. My dad seldom uses my full name, for example, and I don’t mind that. My expectations vary wildly depending on my relationship with the person in question; so much so, it’s hard to keep up.

When a woman calls me Dave it leaves me cold. Particularly when it’s carefully pronounced. Yet I don’t mind it when my mum does it. Freud would have a field day with that.

I particularly hate Dave being used in conjunction with my surname, because they rhyme. Dave Ephgrave sounds like a failed kids’ entertainer. Actually, that's more appropriate than I first thought.

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