One thing humans overlook when they profess they don?t believe in surface-level impressions, are names.

At one time or another we are all guilty of looking beyond large racks, shrinking hairlines and beer bellies. But mostly, we're a shallow bunch.

Us fallible humans are all game until we hear a word that emits imagery far from the bed sheets.

One of my friends at varsity, when out on the pull, met a beautiful blonde at a local drinking hole. He couldn?t believe his luck, when she approached him, in all her buxom glory. Cheekbones that could cut diamonds; wispy ringlets of hair about her face.

He waxed lyrical about this creature all night, until she walked up to him and introduced herself. She thrust out her hand, and after some chit chat about what a great evening it was, told him her name.

No easy way of saying this: her name was Fanny.

Perhaps her parents wanted her to be a nun, or perhaps she was named after her great aunt when the name was de rigueur back in the 1920s. Either way, my friend took two steps back. With images bouncing around his little cranium, mostly of the ridicule his mates would give him when he bought her into the friendship circle, he just couldn?t wrap himself around that term.

Was that shallow? Of course it was, but I can?t blame him. I didn?t buy a home on Fanny Avenue in Norwood for the same reasons. Even if it did have pressed ceilings and a plunge pool. You?ve got to be joking.

Less dramatic, I met a nice looking bloke at a wedding recently. A British expatriate, Oxbridge schooled, a delight in a suit, and someone my mother would get all ooh-ey and ah-ey over, hoping I?d marry into his formative trust fund. The problem was not his appearance, his manners, his personality; (although come to think of it, he was a little on the foppish side with all the rah rah-ing), the problem lay elsewhere.

His name was Rufus. In all seriousness. It?s not that my neighbour?s border collie is of the same name, it?s because I can?t imagine screaming that in bed. The same goes for his equally eligible friend, Barnaby. What possesses parents of this generation to plant such a hand break on an offspring?

It goes as far as pronunciation too. Which American movie had a scene which went like so? "Hi, you must be Gina," says the actor with outstretched hand.

"It?s Jyna."

I can?t remember the movie name, because I can only remember that scene. And the unfortunate pronunciation of her name.

It?s why I call a Regina pizza a Rajeena pizza. In short.

Not that this is anybody?s fault of course. However, there are mechanisms in place, luckily, that involves a trip to Home Affairs and applying for a new name.

Phoebe in Friends chose to change her name to Princess Consuela Banana Hammock; Norma Jean Baker changed hers to Marilyn Monroe. Reginald Dwight changed his to Elton John. (I think I preferred Reginald, but that?s neither here nor there).

Norma Jean was an exceptionally iconic beauty, getting more TV time than Verimark infomercials, and yet, she knew that Marilyn was spelt S.E.X and Norma Jean was spelt B.L.U.E.P.E.R.M. I?m telling you, the name change alone propelled her into the arena of success.

Recruiters have said, in the hiring world, that the first interview you nab at a company, is determined ? at least for the first .02 seconds eyes are laid on your resume ? by name. Proving, this works both for boardrooms and bedrooms.

Of course, it comes down to taste. I had a French boyfriend once who thought the name Fanny was fantastic. Granted, English wasn?t his first language, but he associated that name like I?d view a good, strong name like ?Benjamin?, or the likes. While I hear the name, and think of female nethers.

Perhaps I am Name Sensitive. Is there such a thing?