For the last six years this cheeky monkey has remained nameless. He has lived with me since some time in the year 2000 and yet I had never got around to giving him a name. He was unforthcoming with any suggestions of his own so we left it at that. We don’t talk much so the it’s not too been too much of an issue. Don’t get me wrong I think he’s a great monkey, I’ve said as much in the past. It’s just that an appropriate name never popped into my head. (Lucky I’m not having children any time soon isn’t it?)
Anyway, earlier this week, Gillespie got a name. In fact, I decided to call him Gillespie. In the course of a roundabout explanation of why I held affection for the decidedly dodgy Roman Empire Chinese Takeaway on Roman Roman, I was explaining to Nadja how they had led me to acknowledge his talents and the lesson I had learnt in the process. But I was less able to justify his shortage of identity.
So a few days later I decided he was Gillespie. And you know what? He is Gillespie. Just a few days with the name and it seems to suit him and make him more of a person. While it is obvious in retrospect, I’d never really considered the power of names before. Saying it makes it so. He wasn’t necessarily destined to be a Gillespie but once he was one, it suited him and it suited me.
Soon, I’ll tell you the tale of Warrington ‘Stripes’ McKenzie.