Chapter One Excerpt: Wednesday

It’s hard to know where to start with this. I suppose I could tell you all about where I was born, what it was like when Mom was still around, what happened when I was a little kid, all that kind of stuff, but it’s not really relevant. Or maybe it is. I don’t know. Most of it I can’t remember, anyway. It’s all just bits and pieces of things, things that may or may not have happened — scraps of images, vague feelings, faded photographs of nameless people and forgotten places — that kind of thing.

Anyway, let’s get the name out of the way first.

Martyn Pig.

Martyn with a Y, Pig with an I and one G.

Martyn Pig.

Yeah, I know. Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t bother me any more. I’m used to it. But, there was a time when nothing else seemed to matter. My name made my life unbearable. Martyn Pig. Why? Why did I have to put up with it? The startled looks, the sneers and sniggers, the snorts, the never-ending pig jokes, day in, day out, over and over again. Why? Why me? Why couldn’t I have a normal name? Keith Watson, Darren Jones — something like that. Why was I lumbered with a name that turned heads, a name that got me noticed? A funny name. Why?

And it wasn’t just the name-calling I had to worry about, either, it was everything. Every time I had to tell someone my name I’d start to feel ill. Physically ill. Sweaty hands, the shakes, bellyache. I lived for years with the constant dread of having to announce myself.

"Name?"

"Martyn Pig."

"Pardon?"

"Martyn Pig."

"Pig?"

"Yes."

"Martyn Pig?"

"Yes. Martyn with a Y, Pig with an I and one G."

Unless you’ve got an odd name yourself you wouldn’t know what it’s like. You wouldn’t understand. They say that sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt you. Oh yeah? Well, whoever thought that one up was an idiot. An idiot with an ordinary name, probably. Words hurt. Porky, Piggy, Pigman, Oink, Bacon, Stinky, Snorter, Porker, Grunt ....

I blamed my dad. It was his name. I asked him once if he’d ever thought of changing it.

"Changing what?" he’d muttered, without looking up from his newspaper.

"Our name. Pig."

He reached for his beer and said nothing.

"Dad?"

"What?"

"Nothing. It doesn’t matter."

It took me a long time to realise that the best way to deal with name-calling is to simply ignore it. It’s not easy, but I’ve found that if you let people do or think what they want and don’t let your feelings get too mixed up in it, then after a while they usually get bored and leave you alone.

It worked for me, anyway. I still have to put up with curious looks whenenver I give my name. New teachers, librarians, doctors, dentists, newsagents, they all do it: narrow their eyes, frown, look to one side — is he joking? And then the embarassment when they realise I’m not. But I can cope with that. Like I said, I’m used to it. You can get used to just about anything given enough time.

At least I don’t get called Porky anymore. Well ... not very often.