"Who's Ed Jamieson?" I ask J.

I am reading a paper. This paper. A review wot I wrote. [1] Except it says it's been written by Ed Jamieson.

I'm not an Ed. I've never been an Ed. There are no Eds in our family. My dad was a Ted. My granddad was Ned. I'm Teddy. Edward only on my passport and bank card. And I like my name. If I survived all those schoolyard taunts about it, why should I change it now?

I do let J's friends Erica and Alison call me Ted but that's just politeness. Otherwise, I insist on Teddy. When I first joined The Herald a senior executive asked me did I really want to have Teddy as my byline. I did. I do.

Clearly - as the aforementioned review proves - it doesn't always happen. It's partly my fault. People get confused because I can't say my own name. Or rather my name is one of the few times my birthright Northern Irishness rouses itself and twists the word into some weird, outré shape. "Tee-eey" or something like that. [2]

As a result I had all kinds of bylines when I first started in journalism. Paddy. Terry and once, horrifyingly, Peddy which is not a name anyone would want, especially in these post-Yewtree days.

There's nothing wrong with Ed. I know a couple of Eds. Decent blokes. But I don't want to be one. "I like my name," I say because clearly I'm not letting this drop. "So do I," says Daughter Number Two who's come in mid-mild rant.

J is silent.

And that's when I remember. That's when I remember her first introducing me to her parents. "Mum. Dad. This is Edward."

Edward! I even let her away with it for a while. That's love for you. For the first few months when my prospective mother or father in law asked what Edward would like I'd look around to see who had come in.

Obviously I'm grown up about all this now. So I immediately tell Daughter Number Two what her mother did.

"I was embarrassed calling you Teddy." J says in her defence. "It was a long time ago."

"That's terrible," Daughter Number Two replies.

I keep quiet. Daughter Number Two can fight my corner far better than I ever could.

"I don't mind your name now," J adds.

"That's good to know," I say, summoning up my best pretend wounded pride. [3]

I turn up the radio, knowing she won't turn it down. I start singing along to whatever's on. Nadine Shah, I think. Right now, right at this moment, I feel I am at my most Teddiest.

[1] Unlike Little Ern, I still have my own hair. Just about.

[2] You pronounce it ... OK, I pronounce it "Tay-ey"

[3] Because she's right. It was a long time ago. I'm over it.