The Beckhams named their baby Harper Seven. I understand Harper, OK, it's a bit of a trend at the moment. Everyone loves to love "To Kill A Mockingbird," you know, the author Harper Lee and then Scout is also making a showing. Not my cup of tea, but I can deal with Harper, and I'm even willing to look the other way and smile at Scout.
But Seven?
Please.
A number is not a name. I don't care if it's the number on the shirt of her really, really talented soccer-playing Daddy. I don't care if she was born at 7am on the the 7th of the 7th. Surely they must have accumulated a wonderful list of girls' names by now, surely they realise that girls' names are the most wonderful names to choose, so much more fun than choosing boys' names, really, especially after you've had three boys.
Seven? Seven is a movie starring Brad Pitt, with Gwyneth Paltrow's severed head in a box.
But Seven?
Please.
A number is not a name. I don't care if it's the number on the shirt of her really, really talented soccer-playing Daddy. I don't care if she was born at 7am on the the 7th of the 7th. Surely they must have accumulated a wonderful list of girls' names by now, surely they realise that girls' names are the most wonderful names to choose, so much more fun than choosing boys' names, really, especially after you've had three boys.
Seven? Seven is a movie starring Brad Pitt, with Gwyneth Paltrow's severed head in a box.
What has happened to the truly meaningful tradition of naming one's child after a dearly loved relative who has passed away? Call me an egoist but it gives me great joy to imagine that my great-great-great-granddaughter might be called Eleanor, in my memory.