Caroline Verdon: school nicknames can last a lifetime

Now he’s only three so his peers are also only three which means their level of intellect isn’t really quite up there yet. They’re also only just beginning to learn about rhyming words and so the grand sum total of their nickname-giving ability amounted to “Arthur Parther”. Either way he didn’t like it. He told his teacher, she told them not to do it again and (touch wood) it hasn’t happened since.

He’s a popular little boy and the other children in his class all seem like nice children so I imagine that will be the end of it and that it was just a phonics lesson too far. Personally, I was really just grateful that they didn’t know we called him Artie for short, as a rhyme for that could have ended up a lot worse.

The thing with childhood nicknames is that they can stick with you forever. Just ask a boy in my primary school cruelly named Coco Pop on account of a prominent mole he had on his face. He got it removed before we started secondary school but at the age of 36 he’s still called Coco Pop. I had to refer to him as “a boy in my primary school” because I have absolutely no idea what his real name is anymore, he’s just Coco. Thankfully he’s embraced it now and it even made it onto his wedding invites.

My husband’s surname is Saxton and so everyone calls him Sacky. Unoriginal perhaps but so prevalent is his nickname that in various circles they’ve never known him as anything else. For me, my nickname was ‘burgundy legs’ on account of a very poorly thought out mufti (non-uniform) day - for which I entirely blame my mother.

It was December 1994 and I’d been at a new secondary school for around a month. When I started I didn’t know anyone at all and I’d worked hard to fit in and make friends. I wasn’t particularly cool or uncool so I was able to fly under the radar and was liked or at least tolerated by most. That was until the first mufti day of the year when I became the talk of the school.

I was running early for school and had come down dressed if not to impress then at least to blend in. I was in light blue denim jeans, I had my kickers trainers on and a white polo shirt, the collar of which poked out over the top of my navy Fruit of the Loom sweatshirt. I was so on trend it was unreal and I was feeling confident. Or at least I would have been had my Mum not suggested I get changed.

My Mum suggested that as I was new, blending in would be a bad thing and instead I should wear something that said “Boom, I’m Caroline, I’ve arrived”. Apparently the items in my wardrobe that would do that were a maroon button through skirt, a navy polo-neck, a blue and gold waistcoat and a pair of burgundy tights. It was quite the ensemble.

I arrived at school and the first thing I noticed was that there was quite a lot of staring. As I stood by myself in the playground, the staring started to turn to pointing and whispering in hushed tones. I felt like a zoo animal. Eventually someone plucked up the courage to talk to me, it was just a shame that the ‘someone’ was the school bully. “Oi, new girl” she hollered loud enough so everyone else could hear “are you actually wearing red tights?”. I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Ignoring her wasn’t really an option, I knew I ought to stand up for myself, so I cleared my throat. “They’re not red” I answered cockily, “they’re actually burgundy.”

Everyone laughed, I ran to the toilets to take my tights off even though it was winter and everyone (and I do mean everyone) called me “Burgundy Legs” from that point on.

Could have been worse though – Ant got caught picking his nose in class and lots of his mates still call him “the bogeyman”.