Like many a clinging to middle class, 40 odd woman in the UK today, I wake most mornings mentally heckling the Today programme; "Asked and answered John, asked and answered." and "Let him finish for God's sake Sarah". However what particularly got me thinking yesterday waking to yet another morning of ongoing incredulity at the accelerating implosion of News Corp(se) was not - who did what, knew what, or cares...? But are we being gently manipulated in our consideration of how to feel about the players in this saga?
The Beeb repeatedly referred yesterday morning to; 'Rupert Murdoch, his son James and Mrs Brooks'. Does this mean Rupert Murdoch has established himself as an entity in his own right, whilst James gets his somewhat loaded descriptor to highlight the dubious levels of nepotism still raging at News International and the question of how long investors may continue to tolerate his shielding by Big Daddy?
(In fact it turns out that the cheeky little chap has lived so long in Daddy's shadow, he thinks the Mummy of all Parliaments should wait for him to make himself available to come in for a ticking off!).
What particularly struck me however was the 'Mrs' attached to R.B. What purpose does this serve? Brooks is at once both feminised and de-personalised by this moniker. She is "wife" - ie not a singular person in her own right, and also no longer 'Rebekah'; with the personality that any one's name is chosen to suggest. She is somehow hardened by the removal of her first name and simultaneously categorised as 'wife of' Mr Brooks.
I must be honest though, I struggle to understand my own reaction to this as I was only too proud and thrilled to take my husband's name. I wanted people to know I was married to him. Although even for an average Joan like me, the name change came with its 'issues'. I will admit to some consternation and second thoughts when just as we were sitting in front of the Rector having 'the talk', my fiancé suddenly faltered filling out the section marked 'Surname' on the marriage certificate and whispered that he was actually not quite sure what his name was. I spluttered a fake laugh nervously struggling to capture the 'joke' and trying to avoid the eye of the now faintly suspicious priest. No this wasn't a put up job. My husband wasn't in need of a passport and my father's shotgun was still safely stowed. In fact it quickly emerged that; having allowed me to send off my IDs in an uncharacteristic fit of efficiency so I could proudly flash my new double barreled passport (ah sweet), my future ball and chain had a sneaking suspicion his Mum had once mentioned something about his not actually having the same surname. It turns out that when going to register his birth the new Mum in Law had come over all coy about their, (let's face it) a bit OTT surname and cut him down to just Sinclair; despite having taken the full monty herself and given it to her first born.
Now generally when I bore on through this story at dinner parties I try to 'spin it' a little to the feminist and announce that 'we both changed our names when we married', but in truth my poor 'him indoors' had to change his name so he could seem married to me and people wouldn't think I put together this non-form-fitting, impossible-for-our-three-year-old-to-pronounce, super-surname on purpose! In truth I am therefore just as embarrassed (whilst secretly also very proud) of it as she was... Am I a 'Mrs' yup - you betcha, but blimey,
What's in a name indeed?