While planning on the phone for his arrival in Oxford tomorrow, I just referred to Looby as, er, Looby. He isn’t called Looby. Well, you know: any more than I’m called “sbalb” or “smallbeds”. It confused him quite a bit, and then his confusion confused me. I’m about to go upstairs and fox the hell out of K, and frankly you’re lucky I can still type, we’re all so confused here.
A few years ago I made the decision to use a name as close as possible to my own for almost all of my online identities, apart from this one. That was because I’d lost patience with almost all of the reasons for choosing a pseudonym online, apart from what I felt to me was the most important one: to give certain things a bit of distance, both respectfully from my employment and conveniently from my own social background; also, to hopefully keep a bit of character and colour, that full knowledge of my own demographic and circumstances might have precluded.
Did keeping this pseudonym work? I’m not certain. Without offering you a peek at the man behind the curtain, I can still say I’ve felt able to write more freely here than otherwise; but to what end, I don’t really know. All I’m certain of is that, if Looby finds himself being referred to over the next few days variously as Looby, Albert, C— or Mister John Cage’s Disco Classics, he’s only got himself to blame. At a push, he can take it out on that sbalb chap.