Given some of the names you hear called out in playgrounds these days, you’d assume that the UK is fairly relaxed about allowing people to call their child whatever whacky thing they can come up with – and you’d be correct.
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I woke on Tuesday at 4am and could hardly breathe. I was sweating (and, post-menopausal that I am, I never sweat) and racked with worry. I grabbed my hair, put my head in my hands, and said out loud, ‘What am I doing? What was I thinking?’