I have always thought my name was a bit weird. Those three soft, round vowels in ‘Joanna’. Then the harsher plosive ‘P’ in Pocock with its spiky ending. I was mercilessly teased as a child for my surname: Poke-a-cock being a favourite playground taunt.
When I arrived back in London after my two years away in Montana, I was sent via Facebook a message from a woman I got to know while I worked in a video shop in East London. She was a regular, and we would talk about film, politics, and the likes. Over the years we have sporadically kept in touch and ‘Liked’ some of each other’s postings on Facebook.
This is the message she sent me:
Hello Joanna Pococks!
SO! Last weekend I met a Lovely lady called Jopo and when I asked how she got this handle our friend said “‘cos she’s Joanna Pocock”. The little cogs started whirring and I said, “but I know a Joanna Pocock!”
“You KNOW Joanna Pocock!?” Squealed Jopo.
And Jopo proceeded to tell me that she’d signed up for a writing class at Central Saint Martins some time ago but on arrival saw that the teacher was Joanna Pocock so she retreated fearing that “Miss” would consider her some scary doppelgangerstalker. Also a few years ago “Miss” Pocock’s father wrote her on Facebook curious to find out about this other Joanna Pocock and the two proceeded to correspond.
Anyway I wanted to introduce you guys and if you chose to meet please lemme know how it goes or indeed invite me. Welcome home “Big”? “Old?” Jo (snark!) and hope you’re having a blast at Boomtown “Lil'” “Young” Jo (ahem..)
Loadsa Love XXX Lucy
So, it turns out there is another writer living in East London who shares my name, who corresponded with my father, and almost enrolled in my creative writing class at Central Saint Martins. I wonder what I would have thought if she had walked through the door and sat down. Maybe that she was doing some kind of art project whereby she pretended to have the same name as her tutor?
So, Joanna Pocock (the Younger) and I are planning to meet up somewhere in our neighbourhood and as she says in a message to me, “Haha this is amazing… We should go for a coffee and talk about what it’s like to be called Joanna Pocock and turn it into art.”
This is exactly the kind of thing I would write.
Is there a story or documentary in this? I don’t know why I find it so strange, but it may have something to do with the fact that Joanna Pocock is a fairly weird name.
I will keep you posted.
Joanna Pocock (the Older)