Bronwyn

Would be a name that suits you down to the ground. It's proud and at first it seems ugly, but truly it's a name with its own rhythms, quirks and handsome qualities.

Just like you.

Don't you think so?

I've never seen you eat. Are you paranoid, like I am but in a different way? Were you an athelete? What were you like at school? I'm construing popularity, standoffishness, maybe a bully?

Or, conversely, hanging about on the edge of groups- not having a best friend, but on the outer circuits. More interested in sports than anything else. I bet you were a bright child, but you couldn't or didn't really want to go on to do anything scholastic.

Your hair catches the light lovely, iron grey and steely. I like the lack of fuss- classicist. I like your personal lack of fuss about everything. I make far too much fuss, or I like everything far too much, or I am too insubstantial.

I hope to God you don't think I'm fluffy. I am not. I never talk about weight, and I don't pity the little children, like some of them do. I don't like cuddly toys.

But I do ask for too much help don't I, and I am too easily bonded to the little blighters, and I can't work out how to deal with them yet. I wear makeup every day- that's a basic plea for acceptance in itself, a way of saying I am scared. I don't think you wear makeup. I wear skirts, trousers for the first time the other day, and holey boots. Do you think I'm ridiculous? I thought Chatelaine did, and now I know she doesn't. That's good. But you're a different story.

Ruth, or Bronwyn, or Bren, or something along those lines. Valiant, strong names. Those should be what you're called, not the twee fifties-inspired moniker you currently sport. Not that I'd change it. Do you like your name? There's acceptance and there's liking. I like mine.