I have often wondered about my name. Is it just because it is my name that I feel funny about it? Had I been called something glamorous like Diana, would I feel the same? One of my friends is called Sally and I think it is very pretty on her. When I was a child I used to cringe when older people used to sing the song, “Sally, Sally, pride of our alley…”, or when kids used to sing the nursery rhyme, “Sally go round the sun, Sally go round the moon, Sally go round the chimney pots on a Sunday afternoon…” No, I was probably right to cringe.

A few weeks ago, when I was out shopping with my mum, we got into conversation with a pleasant lady called Rose or “Rosie” (seeing as we all got on so well). We commented on the prettiness of her name, to which she became super-smiley and animated.

“Would you believe that I married a Mr. Budd?” she asked.

We were suitably incredulous, and I was about to ask the obvious question, when Rosie pre-empted me:

“And I didn’t marry him for his name!” she laughed.

Today, whilst I was shopping for presents for people I had forgotten during my two previous forays into the knick-knack shops, I came across a counter filled with ladies ribbed cotton jumpers in three different pastel shades – salmon pink, pale aqua and primrose yellow.Now I love cotton jumpers (wool irritates my skin) and I love all those pastel colours so I found it hard to choose from amongst them. Chris was no help – he was already suffering from shopping fatigue and I knew he would say anything.

“The blue one”, he said, sounding fed-up.

“What’s wrong with the yellow?” I asked, slightly perturbed because I was coming down in favour of the yellow.

“They are all fine,” he answered, sounding even more fed-up, and he went off leaving me to it.

At that moment an older lady came along and began to inspect the jumpers.

“I love cotton jumpers,” said the older lady.

“So do I.”

“They wash and wear so well…” she began.

“And when they are old you can use the cotton for dish-cloths,” I interjected.

“Or floor cloths,” she added with a smile that showed the joy of one who has just met a kindred spirit.

“Aren’t they pretty?” she asked.

“Yes, they all are. That’s why I can’t decide. What do you think?” I asked back.

One by one, I held a jumper of each colour up to my chin… twice.

“Well, I’ve never seen anyone look so pretty in those colours, so if I was you I would buy all three!” she said very charmingly.

“But I only want to buy one.”

“In that case, go for the blue,” she suggested.

“Why not the yellow one,” I asked (still hankering for the yellow).

“Well, my name was  Eleanor Primrose so my mother always dressed me in primrose yellow, and people always ribbed me about it,” she laughed.

I took her advice and the lady moved on. I was about to move on too when I had a sudden change of heart and changed the aqua for the primrose. In all probability, the aqua blue had the edge – I know that colour suits me well – but I also knew that the pale yellow would remind me of Eleanor Primrose. And it would remind me also of something else – Chris and I got married April 17th, the closest day to Primrose Day (April 19th) that we could arrange; and, all these years later, our house is filled with primroses each anniversary – Chris picks them while I am still asleep.

Incidentally, the jumper looks lovely, but I probably wouldn’t have bought it if my name was Sally Primrose. And while I am on the subject of primroses, here is a photograph of some pink primroses (or are they primulas) with faces that look like some of my nieces and nephews.