I miss my name

Anonymity isn’t exactly a natural state of affairs, and sometimes I do wonder what exactly a pseudonym is for. Of course as Girl on the 7.42 I’m part of a long, occasionally literary tradition – Georges Sand, Belle du jour, Stig – but, come to think of it, didn’t they all have something to hide, something risqué or at least something that intrigued? My anonymity, on the other hand, is never going to attract attention.

And my own name – something I’ve never been particularly attached to – has over the last few months finally found its raison d’être, precisely because I’d decided to do without it for a while. Granted, when it’s 7.42 in the morning on platform 2, and when I’m seeking nothing but a little bit of personal space and a fast train to London, the dark cloak of anonymity suits me perfectly, but as the day wears on, and as the days have turned into weeks and months, I’ve grown to miss the usefulness, the shortcut to identity that a name provides.

It gives people a handle on you (or me in this case), and now I see it for what it is: a catch-all for whatever I’m up to and whatever trail I might leave in my wake. Which if all goes smoothly, and if I continue to be the law-abiding citizen that I can’t help but be, could be a handy thing. In other words, I miss my name.


Juliette Mitchell