Stories from my Sketchbook . . .
I recently saw the new movie ‘Christopher Robin’. It was (perhaps predictably) very sweet (although not sickly sweet enough as to cause a sugar coma) and, as an early and adoring reader of A.A Milne (especially the poems . . . ‘I found a little beetle; so that Beetle was his name . . . ‘) evoked nostalgic memories of happy times I spent along with C.R. and his friends on their many rambling adventures around the Hundred Acre Wood . . .
Now I know that movies are movies and real life is real life and movies (more often than not) take diabolical liberties with the truth (the real Christopher Robin was probably turning in his grave) but the one thing I especially liked about this movie was that all the little critters actually looked like the real toys I had always imagined them to be, rather than the prettied up Disney versions that have so eclipsed E.H. Shepard’s wonderful original drawings.
Pooh and Piglet and Tigger and Eeyore (‘ . . . it’s not much of a tail but I’m sort of attached to it . . . ‘) were all a little careworn and grubby and frayed around the edges—just as any much-loved childhood toy should be.
Below is (most obviously, I hope) not a sketch of that most beloved and humble Winnie. It is, however, a sketch of another bear who carries the same telltale scars of being on the receiving end of a lifetime of deep love and devotion . . .
That’s okay. As my birth certificate actually states my name to be ‘Sally’ rather than ‘Sarah’, this may, hopefully, be enough to keep me out of trouble should I ever decide to visit Morocco, but it also makes me wonder—if a name as simple as Sarah can be deemed illegal in a country because of the letter ‘h’, how are some of this generation’s children, many of whom have, shall we say, increasingly ‘interesting’ personal monikers, ever going to be able to go out and about travelling the world without causing some sort of major international incident?
Most countries do have laws in place about what you may or may not call your children, and some are stricter than others. In Germany, you must be able to tell the gender of the child by the first name, and the name chosen must not be negatively affect the well being of the child. In Iceland the name must only contain letters in the Icelandic alphabet, and must fit grammatically with the language (so no Caroline or Christine as there is no letter ‘c’ in Icelandic.) Denmark has a list of 7,000 pre-approved baby names. If parents want a name that is not on that list they must get special permission from their local church and then it must be reviewed by government officials.
New Zealand also requires parents to run prospective names by the government. Its naming rules are similar to those of Australia but recent applications received by their authorities seem just a tad more ‘out there’. Over the last few years New Zealand has repeatedly rejected applications for people to name their children Lucifer, Christ, Mafia No Fear, 4Real and Anal. (Seriously.) However, in spite of rejecting those names, in 2008 the same authorities made international headlines when they allowed a set of twins to be named ‘Benson’ and ‘Hedges’ and also agreed to the name ‘Number 16 Bus Shelter’ . . . (I really feel that I should comment on this, but honestly, speechless . . . )
Although I am not a parent (to any two legged children at least) I do understand that some parents might want their child’s name to be special or unique, and I think that is a lovely idea. I am also not entirely averse to being a bit imaginative or creative with spelling choices (and you might have to be if you live in Morocco or Iceland), but, in all seriousness, one would hope that any parent might give at least a moment’s thought to the fact that said child will have to go through a significant portion of his life having to bear that name—at least until they are old enough to throw themselves upon the mercy of the courts to have it changed.
Sally says . . . eat, sleep, work, read, play, draw, bark . . . 