“I’m taking a stand. I’m putting my foot down.” The text message came through at exactly 1.45pm yesterday afternoon.It chills me to the bone just to think about it. Was it a rollicking from work? Had my wife had enough?

No, this was my daughter adopting the ideologically certain voice of a political crusader at the age of 13. Why? In protest at her parents changing her piano lesson time without her permission.

Bad enough that she should be on the darn phone texting during school hours, never mind scheming sheer anarchy by refusing to go to her piano teacher. But that wasn’t the end of it. Our teenage rigourist had another pronouncement to make: no more ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’ - from now on it would be first names only.

Now, some more traditional families might consider that to be a bit hippy dippy. I’ve got no strong feelings really - in fact, if it makes her happy, why not? - but I am filled with a growing anxiety. How long will it be until my daughter discovers the full potential of my name?

The Bens of this world will know what I’m talking about.The monosyllabic diminutive that most of us adopt in adulthood veils the manifold possibilities that can be inflicted upon its holders.There’s ‘Benny’, the affectionate, arms-around-the-shoulder warm greeting, or the screeching ‘Beeny!’. Actually throughout most of my childhood I was ‘Benjy’. That was, until the day I discovered 'Benjy' probably meant I was just one bowl of Winalot short of identifying as a dog.

Worst of all of is the full monty, ‘Benjamin’, used only to admonish me thoroughly deservedly when I was a small boy. It sounds even better translated from Hebrew: ‘How dare you do this, Son of the Right Hand?!?’ 

Oh, and by the way, yes I did switch back the piano lesson time. Benjamin, how could you?