Mornings at Seven For several years now my newsagent has been spelling my name incorrectly. Every morning I glance hopelessly at the top fight - hand comer of my newspaper and wince. There is something vaguely uplifting a- bout seeing one' s own name, one' s correct name written out in blue pencil at the top of a newspaper and there is something litterly degrading about seeing one' s name carelessly distorted. I have mentioned the mat- ter to my newsagent several times, but it makes no difference. He is a surly, militant, independent devil, a monopolist of the worst kind. He does not realise of course that his carelessness causes me endless trouble and no little embarrassment. I take my newspaper to the office, I read it on the train, and the people with whom I travel mispronounce my name because they have only the newsagent's written instruction to go on. When I fail to recognise my spoken name they look at me suspiciously -- as though I have momentarily forgotten my latest alias. I used to rub out the newsagent's blue pencillings before I left home, but modem newsprint does not stand up to modem .erasers for long and my paper was always very much the worse for wear when I reached the station. For a few weeks I drafted an imaginary dog whenever I unfolded the newspaper in public travelling companions and office colleagues remained puzzled, however. Some of them seemed to think was leading a double life the rest, that I was robbing somebody's letter - 60X on my way to work. Later I tried crossing out the newsagent's mark and writing my correct name underneath it, but even this move was misinterpreted. At the office it was assumed that I made a practice of collecting discarded newspapers from the train and passing them off as my own. No one actually said as much, but action some- times speak louder than words. Naturally, I could not tell the newsagent of all these things. He would have laughed me out of the shop. I could only repeat my earlier protest... I was at the shop early. He was standing behind the counter, and as soon as I saw him I knew that there would be some unpleasantness. Mr Higson is never at his best unshaven, in slippers atmosphere and braces, and smoking on an empty stomach. The little shop was heavy with the bittersweet odour of fresh newsprint and ink:stacks of crisp newspapers and magazines lay neatly on the counter, and Higson and the boy were making up the daily round. “Express, Mirror and Woman,” said Higson with his eye on a grabby notebook. The boy collected the newspapers, flicked the magazine between their pages and placed the folded bundle before his master. Higson bent and scrawled a name in the top right - hand comer of the Express -- just to the right of the Crusader in Chains. “Times, Financial Times, Mail, “he barked. “Good morning, “I said, “Just a small point, I wonder...” Higson let his blue pencil clatter to the counter and looked up. “I thought it wouldn't be long!” he said. “Must be a week or more since you last changed your order.” “I don't think...” “No use denying it,” he broke in. “All here in black and white. “He licked a finger and pushed at the pages of the notebook. “Here we are, “he said. “February 14, Mail instead of Chronicle. March 14, Herald instead of Mail and cancel Telegraph for eight days. April 1, Worker for Herald. May 26, Times instead of Felegraph, Chronicle instead of Worker. July 21th...” “Surely, “I said, “I' ye a perfect right to read which papers I like !” “You and old Topham!” he said. “What's Mr Topham to do with it?” I said. “Well he's another of' em. Chop and change, chop and change. Must think I've nothing better to do.” “As a matter, of fact, “I said,” I called on quite another matter. I wanted to draw your attention to the fact that there are two L's in my name.” “You gone and