I was named after an earthy blonde – have I lived up to it?

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, I inquired of a Staffordshire bull terrier called “Romeo” last weekend. Answer came there none. However, the young pup was every inch his monicker – dashing, immaculately groomed, with a certain laddish bravura – in a way that a mere “Rover” could never have been.

For psychologists have discovered that humans – and doubtless hounds – grow to resemble their names, dubbing this the Dorian Gray effect. Just as the character of Oscar Wilde’s hero became etched on his portrait, so the cultural stereotypes identified with a name come to be written on the features of its bearers. Accordingly, Bobs are round-faced and jovial like the late Mr Hoskins, Tims posher and pinched. Katharines are more serious than Bonnies (see Hepburn versus Langford), Marys moral with a face to go with it.

Naturally, I take this to mean that I am the epitome of all Hannahs, against which mere minor contenders may be measured as palindromically inadequate. By which we can understand that Hannahs fit the category: “anxious-looking goth”. And, yet, I was named after actress Hannah Gordon, on whom my father nursed a pash, an earthy blonde.

Moreover, while Hannahs were a rarity when I took on the mantle amid a sea of Seventies’ Kates, in the Nineties it became America’s new “Jennifer”: that is, the name of every girl with parents unable to think creatively. This, and the fact that both “Hannah” and “Betts” were established servants’ names, means that uniting their forces can mean only “pleb”. Still, matters could have been worse. An Under Milk

Wood enthusiast, my father also flirted with “Myfanwy” – unlikely to play well in a Birmingham playground.

My brother George bent beautifully to his handle, being a solid, country-loving, pastoral type – a Farmer George if ever there was one – shot through with Saint George derring-do. Well might Prince Charles be considering taking it up as king.

Meanwhile, my partner’s name is so heinous that I can still barely bring myself to utter it. However much people endeavour to assure me that it equates with “roguish thespian” (Stamp), I see only Seventies’ footballers (Venables) and the king of Lite E (Wogan).

I look forward to the nippers in my friends’ children’s playgrounds morphing into their identities. Will the Hectors, Aeneases and Ajaxes of my Scots pals be brute-faced bruisers? Can one assume that Hackney’s Empress, Kingdavid and Princess Nisha will be naturally imperious?

What of Apple, Django, Ormerod, Lucious, and Yellow, currently hiding their faces in shame in a west London creche? Will they come to resemble the whey-faced orthorexics who spawned them, or will they eventually beg to be rechristened “Susan”? Thank heavens for the takeover of Mohammed – now the most popular boys’ name in Blighty, if one includes all the different ways of spelling it – equivalent to the socially inscrutable “John”.

As a bolshy teen, I used to fantasise about calling my offspring “Oedipus” and “Clytemnestra” – one of the many reasons why it’s a blessing I haven’t had children. I still rather favour the latter: “Cly Betts” would make such a brilliant byline. I’d trade it for Hannah were I not the nonpareil.