A journalist asked me the other day, with reference to the heroine of my trilogy, if Nancy Sphinctergritzel was her real name.
No, silly! As if anyone would really have a name like that! Below is a short extract from Volume One which explains a little about the name this lady (a term I use loosely) was born with:
[[ Nancy was not disappointed about having been born on the wrong side of the blanket—she spent most of her life labeled as illegitimate, or something like that—but she did wonder, if she was a Red Indian child, why she hadn’t been given a name to compliment her looks, such as Pink Orchid, or Yellow Jasmine. She therefore decided to have it out with the Red Indian chief, two days after her seventh birthday.
“Big Chief Big Cheese,” she asked. “Why was I given such unusual names?”
She meant the names Nancy and Clarice, but the chief, aware only of her birth name, did not know this.
“Well, it’s like this,” he explained. “In our culture, when a child is born the father wanders out into the wilderness, sits on the ground, and closes his eyes in deep meditation. One hour later, he opens his eyes, and he names his child after the first thing he sees. But, why are you asking me this, Two-Skunks-Fucking-On-A-Log?” ]]
It therefore would have been very ignoble of me to herald my saga as "The Two-Skunks-Fucking-On-A-Log Trilogy". Somehow, this does not quite roll off the tongue. Sphinctergritzel was her father's name, again rather unfortunate as this is what the German population call the hole in one's bottom, as illustrated by the--ahem--illustration below, which I include not for titillation but purely for educational reasons, though there is a very distinct resemblance to Nancy, I feel, especially around the lips.
I have also been asked of there are more Nancy stories on the stocks. Well, she lived a very long time--from 1904 until 2010, and we knew her well and socialised with her frequently during her final years--so yes, there will. So far, three more are waiting to come out. But will they be as irreverent as the first three, the journalist wanted to know?
No, they will not. They will be even more irreverent. Nancy's poet lover, Judy Pubstool, has yet to tell her story--as has Hiram Maurice, the 19-year-old she wed at 99, and who she bumped off while they were having an intimate moment.