Had I known Henry Walter Plunkett- Ernle-Erle-Drax, I’m sure I would have had some more personal thoughts about him when I read of his death the other day, but instead I found myself wondering how he’d coped with such a long name during his 89 years. Having just moved house and therefore telling various people over the telephone of my change of address, I have constantly found myself ba ed or exasperated by this tedious task. ‘I’ll just read that back to you,’ I hear, and then, in one breathless gasp, comes something about Romeo playing Golf in India with two fellows called Mike to be joined in November by Oscar from the Delta. The mind whirrs, and I’m somewhere between Verona and the mouth of the Ganges, trying to say, ‘No, only one Mike,’ when I’m asked to go through it all again with my email address. I had...
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