Bad enough that our doctor and our dentist have the same last names. Not only that, but our doctor and Peter’s dermatologist have the same first names and very similar last names. Add to that my childhood friend and another friend from the not as distant past have the same first names. The former’s husband has the same first name as the latter’s surname.
My poor husband doesn’t have a chance of keeping all that straight.
Recently, while Skyping with our friends in England, Martin and Anna, Peter was confounded by a question Martin asked. He came running to me, mid-Skype, to ask about “an old house.” I had no idea what he was talking about, so I followed him here, to my computer. “That house,” Peter said, pointing to a small painting of our previous home on the wall behind him. His friend could see it as they talked, and wondered about it.
“Martin painted that for me for Christmas about thirty years ago,” I said.
“Martin? Martin doesn’t paint,” Peter scoffed, while his friend laughed on the other side of the Atlantic.
“No-o, not that Martin,” I said, “son-in-law Martin!”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, anyway, I don’t remember that house.”
“Peter, we lived there seventeen years,” I said, frustrated. I loved that house, loved living there. He shook his head. Nope, he neither remembered the house, the little village, nor that Leslie’s husband Martin painted the picture. Peter’s old college mate sat at his kitchen table chuckling, not that the confusion was really funny. But, might as well laugh as cry, eh?