My parents have a christian name each: Pamela and David. I know this because I’ve heard people address them as such, and they’ve reacted with “yes?” or “that’s me”.

When I was 9 or 10 years old, changes were afoot. We moved house, I changed schools, I started to tentatively explore the exciting possibilities of swearing, and began to think of the prettier girls in my class as more than just arbiters of exceptionally neat handwriting. Suddenly I felt that it was no longer appropriate to call my mother “mummy”. It sounded wrong, like a precursor to informing her that I had soiled my bed linen, and it labelled me as an infant – at a time when I was showing great promise in coming to grips with the intricacies of Venn diagrams. Similarly, I could no longer refer to my father as “daddy”. I had no idea that young offenders had appropriated the word and were making it sound vicious and terrifying, that in borstal close acquaintances of the “daddy” would command immediate respect and have unrestricted access to switchblades and knuckledusters; all I knew was that I, a polite young boy who had never so much as been put in detention, made the same word sound as if I urgently required a double-scoop of ice-cream, or to be pushed higher on the swings.

Things had to change. But some unknown force prevented me from making that leap towards maturity that would lead me to call my dad dad. Or my mum mum. It sounded wrong and I felt incredibly self-conscious, as if the uttering of these mono-syllabic three letter words would suddenly bring to my parents’ attention the fact that I would shortly begin to grow pubic hair. I couldn’t have that, I had to make sure that they would never, ever know. So in characteristically cavalier fashion I decided to postpone this coming of age while I consulted my peers. I began to observe more closely how they were coping by inviting myself round to their houses and cheerfully meeting and greeting more mums and dads than was strictly necessary. During rainy afternoons indoors spent listening to Adam Ant, playing Ker-Plunk and swigging flat cola, my hosts would inevitably feel the need to whiningly holler to their mother or father – and as I heard them do so I felt a twinge of jealousy; at home I was unable to call out to my own parents and would have to make the journey downstairs or into the next room in order to ask a question, or to simply dispense hard facts. No doubt surprised by my grace, charm and newly found reserves of energy, my parents must nevertheless have been puzzled by the intense gaze that I would adopt to address them, in order to make absolutely clear which of them I was talking to.

While doing this important research into the dynamics of other families I remember visiting my friend Ed, and my jaw dropping as I heard his older sisters Katie and Sarah refer to their parents as “John” and “Angela”. This suggested a totally inappropriate level of intimacy. The kind of people I was on first name terms with at that time were those I would either tussle playfully with in the street, or earnestly engage in discussion of the relative merits of Kola Kubes and Sherbert Lemons. My parents fell in neither category. Since then I’ve come across people who find this overfamiliar chumminess perfectly normal. Phil called his parents Paul and Barb(ara) from the age of two. His mother claims that this started as soon as he noticed that there was more than one mummy and daddy in the world, and he felt the need to differentiate. Perhaps his own emotional hurdle came when he encountered a different Paul later in life, and had to resist the overwhelming temptation not to ask him for pocket money or get into the back of his car. Still later I met a trendy Christian couple called Mike and Mary, who insisted on their children using their first names and would chide them thoroughly if they ever deviated. But they were both in a disappointingly bland rock band called “The Royal Rendezvous”, which might explain that particular brand of quirkiness.

But it wasn’t just the forward thinking, luxuriously-bearded and austerely-sandalled parents who were being addressed in this way. Jim’s older sister started calling her mum “Sandra” because they weren’t getting on, rather than wanting to project a bogus picture of cosy co-habitation. Patrick claimed that he just always loathed the sound of the word “dad”, and was presumably enchanted by the possibility of using the far more mellifluous word “Ken”. Without exception, these children would go back to using “mum” and “dad” as soon as they were in need of food, information, shelter, or more often, cash. But I still had nothing to revert to when I was in need, no special term of endearment, and even by my teenage years was still in the unenviable position of being unable to attract my mother’s attention from the other side of the street without resorting to shouting “oi” or “coo-ee” or “you, who nursed me through infancy.” I wish in retrospect that she had noticed my discomfort and actually told me what to say, instead of leaving me to grapple with the problem. Although I remember John’s parents firmly leading him him back down the terrifying path of “mummy” and daddy” as they considered the use of “mum” and “dad” too common. He should have been thankful that they stopped short of “mater” and “pater”, terms I have only ever heard jokingly uttered in a plummy accent, but suspect must actually be used by some children. Probably before loudly complaining that nanny is late running their bath.

Another disconcerting scenario I came across would be that of the mother referring to her husband as “dad” and the father replying to “mum”. I worried terribly about the confusion this could cause in the minds of any young children within earshot. They must have had considerable trouble working out exactly who their brothers were, why one of them seemed to be a lot older than the others, why he was allowed to smoke – and exactly what his relationship was with the older woman in the house, who seemed to be their sister? Or perhaps not? And who exactly were their parents?

By the time I went to university I was still wrestling with these issues. I found myself floundering during phone calls as I asked my mother if I could speak to “him, please” or asking my father if his wife was at home. I noticed crises in other people’s lives presenting them with similar problems to mine. Joanna had been addressing her boiler-suited pig farmer father as “dad” for years, when suddenly she was forced to switch to the affectionate but more distant “pops” when he embarrassingly mishandled his midlife crisis by buying a leather jacket and a Volvo 480 before holidaying alone in Florida. A ginger haired Mancunian friend of a friend called Tom became a heroin and jelly addict, and then decided in his drug addled state to start using the radical and slightly surreal “Bid” and “Bod”. Constant rowing in Rob’s home led to whispered discussions between the siblings about whether “moneybags” or “the war office” were in the more dangerous mood. And as Andrew became entrenched in the world of student left wing politics and increasingly resentful of his middle class upbringing, he would be overheard on the phone sarcastically drawling the words “Doctor”, “Sir” or “Emperor” at his father, or on a particularly bad day, “Your Excellency”.

Now I’m into my 30s and I’m still not sure how to resolve this. Christmas and birthday cards pose a particular challenge, and I try to conceal the problem by using gentle humour and greetings such as “to my dearest relative” or “warmest personal regards from me, to you.” All around me people have moved on to having cute, knowing sobriquets that they can write on the envelope, “Prim and Proper”. “Top Dog & Top Cat.” “Marge & Fee”. “Fa & Nant”. “Mother Trout & Father Trout”. “Monkey & Sea Dog.” The idea of giving my parents nicknames gives me sweaty palms. I hear my friend Graham referring to “Horse” and I know he means his dad. Maurice – Horace – Horace the Horse – Horse. The same way I used to refer to Martin Cutler as Sausage. Martin – Cutler – Cutlet – Lamb – Pork – Sausage. But a nickname for my mum? Maybe I should call and just ask her what she would prefer to be called. But what if my dad answers the phone?