I was at a Thing last night, you know, these Things, for meeting and greeting, with the wine and what-nots –

“Hungry,” I texted Nora before we arrived. “If we’re lucky, this will be a dim sum careers evening!” But in fact we showed up and there were five plates of crisps and dips

– I was at this Thing, and catching up with acquaintances I hadn’t seen in a while, and so on and so forth – the things, you know, that you do, at these Things, where you’re smiling and smiling and smiling.

Where I’m getting to is this: People hear I got married, they ask – and it’s always women who ask, as if they have the name-change form signed and ready in their purses – if I’m changing my name. Am I the only person who’s surprised by this? It’s my name, people, I like it; it’s not going anywhere soon.

I’m not offended or anything by the asking – hardly even taken aback – just surprised. Different strokes, right? But it’s a curious thing. I mean, someone tells me they just got married, I don’t think to ask if they’re changing their name. Did you have cake?, I might ask, and if they say Yes, I will probably say, What kind?. Can I see your ring? is another I might ask, and I might wave my hands about as I say this. I might also say, Tell me about your dress!, which I am aware is not a question, but which seems appropriate anyhow.

Nora, on the other hand, is not asking about my name. She asks about the mice. We walked up to Oxford Street while she figured out where to get her bus. “You are getting attached to the mice,” she said. “I can see it in your blog.” “Kill them,” she said, interrupting my weak protestations, “kill them all.”