A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Not.

My colleague D. waltzed into my office yesterday afternoon (after I had made my fatally squeaky-voiced phone call to counsel for the other side).
"Hey there Jack, how are you doing?" he said.
"Not bad, Harry," I said. But D. shook his head.
"Nononono...What I was saying was Jack. As in J-A-K. Jak. You know, your initials."
I smiled grimly. I said,
"What you don't know, D., is that the A is actually not part of my initials. The A is part of my name."
"But you have a hyphen in front of the A."
That man does not like owning up to being wrong. Ever. Do they feed you something bad at law schools in the States to make you like that?
"I know there is a hyphen. But there isn't a full stop after the A is there, so it's not an abbreviation of anything."
I said, and picked up one of my name cards on my desk to twirl it under D.'s nose. He read it curiously as if he had never really looked at my name before in all the emails we exchange during the course of a normal working day.
"Besides," I continued, "if you insist on calling me a pseudonym, I'm going to have to call you Daz or something."
D.'s initials are D.Z. D. shrugged his shoulders, and said,
"I don't mind. I suppose it's easier than Diz or whatever."
I chuckled at this. He was about to walk out of the door when I said,
"You sure about that? Daz is the name of a washing powder, in London, you know."
D. stopped for a minute, looked at me in disbelief, then grinned and walked off.