Snakes on the Brain

Pete and I have been discussing baby names. Or to be accurate, I have been suggesting baby names, and Pete has been saying, "No, I'm not sure about that one," before going back to reading the NewsNow Manchester City page.

However, he did have one contribution to make.

"The baby's middle name is going to be Snake, right?" said Pete.

"Ha ha," I said.

Pete and I had previously joked about this. That's joked, in the same way we joked about having an entirely Top Gun-themed wedding (and in reality only went for a bit of theme music and aviators for all guests).

"I'm serious," said Pete.

"What?"

"I think it would be really cool."

I looked at him. I realised that he was indeed being serious, and that I had married a madman.

"So you want to send a child into a South East London school playground with the middle name Snake?"

"No," said Pete.

I breathed a sigh of relief. He was joking after all!

"We would keep its middle name a secret until it was 18."

It took me several moments to regain my composure. "What," I began politely, "the **** are you talking about?"

"Just imagine. I would have absolutely loved it if my parents had come to me on my 18th birthday and said, 'Son, now you have come of age you have a right to know. Your middle name is Snake.'"

A discussion followed. We began to argue about practicalities of hiding someone's own name from them until adulthood. At some point I realised I was having an actual debate with a grown man about calling a real child Snake, and decided to shut it down.

"I'm not having this conversation any more. If you want a baby called Snake, I suggest you impregnate someone else."

I think it's a girl, anyway. In which case, as per last month's poll, we're calling it Scherzinger.