A Sally by any other name

I have had, for this week and for my lifetime, a surfeit of being called Sally. This is largely because it is not my name. General consensus would have me named Sally but general consensus did not name me, that task was left to my rather dear, sweet parents and, quite frankly, they could have done a lot worse and almost did. I loathe the name and I make no apology for it. I’m quite sure it’s a nice enough name if you have it and I’m sure we’ve all known nice girls called Sally. Alas, however, I am neither nice nor Sally. I would greatly appreciate it if people listened as I spoke my name – I am a star enunciator – and stopped assuming I was called by such a silly little name. My own name is silly enough as is. It has no proper form. It has terrible trashy and cheerleader connotations. Still, however, it is my name and I much prefer it to Sally. I even understand how the mistake could be made given that my name and Sally share a letter or two or four. Only, I never do call myself Sally and I’m sure that not even I mumble to the extent that my name comes out all Sally. I am, in short, fed up with being called Sally. So much so that the next person who calls me Sally is going to have their head ripped from their neck with my bare hands and, hopefully, painfully forced up their arse – all in the nicest possible way, of course.