News that Oxford’s top boys names – at least last month – were Thomas, George and, in joint third place, Benjamin, Oliver and Samuel, opened old wounds.

For years I’d hated ‘Jeremy’ (although in truth it could have been worse; my parents had initially wanted to call me Barnaby) and, during my adolescence, I long dreamed I’d been christened Brad or Tom or Lukas (don’t ask me why – I’d read the name in a magazine and thought it sounded cool).

To me, ‘Jeremy’ felt like an unfair burden because you couldn’t say it quickly.

Introducing myself, it always sounded so long, so feminine, so fragile: “Hello, I’m J-e-r-e-m-y”.

Whereas friends of mine called Pete and Glenn seemed to command respect simply by virtue of their plucky names.

Indeed, during sports lessons at school, the most gifted footballers boasted names that guaranteed they’d be preceded by those most elite of playground designer labels – ‘forward’ and ‘striker’.

The ‘Waynes’, ‘Steves’ and ‘Nicks’ were always picked first, while those in the ‘Basil’, ‘Benedict’, ‘Cecil’ and ‘Dudley’ class of boys generally had their sports kits hidden or nicked before they even stepped out of the changing rooms.

So I have to say I’m very glad I’ve never had to choose a child’s name. The responsibility I think would floor me.

I’d overcompensate, I’m sure, for my own misgivings and, were he a son, call him ‘Storm’ or ‘Troy’, just to be sure he didn’t get picked on in the school playground.

Were she a daughter, on the other hand, I’d probably plump for ‘Vicky’ or ‘Keeley’, since they’d doubtless end up captaining the netball team.

Clearly, parents owe it to their kin to agonise over this seemingly simple decision, especially when wondering if their son or daughter will go on to become Prime Minister, an Olympian gold athlete or the next Jordan.

As far as I can tell, more than a child’s background and education, it is their name which will truly mark the arc of their lives.

I mean, what if the Duchess of Cambridge (nee Catherine Middleton) had been called Hilda Ogden instead?

On a completely different subject, I have to say, I couldn’t have smiled bigger or longer over the story of Peggy Barson, Oxford’s oldest theatre stalwart who took her final bow at the New Theatre last week – 71 years after she started.

Peggy began working at the George Street theatre in, wait for it, 1940, when she was aged just 19.

Yet not only is her indomitable spirit a thing of genuine beauty (such as saying: “When they told me about the pension scheme, I said I didn’t need to worry about that as I wouldn’t be there long.”) but so too is her astonishing grace towards colleagues.

“I’ve never had a cross word in all those years,” she said.

Wow. I can only daydream about what that must be like.