Well, that's what dad began calling me on the day I was born. I think he had read somewhere that Red Indians called their kids after the first thing they saw after the birth, and for dad, it was some unidentifiable, bacteria-infused liquid that was dripping onto the kitchen floor from a corner of a bin bag.

I wasn't christened Binjuice, of course; Mum would never allow that. I was Virginia, which became Ginny, which became Binny. No shortage of laughs in our house.

 I didn't mind Binny so much. I considered it a vast improvement on my given name, and it was different enough to make it appealing to me, and it just kind of stuck. They only used Virginia when I was naughty or when mum was trying to impress the neighbours.

 Mortification set in when I went to secondary school, and the bullies got to know my full, unfortunate title. I became 'Juicy Ginny' or: 'Ginny's bin Juicy', and then they took my dinner money away. Horrible.

School leaving day meant no more bullies, and 'Binny' became 'Bins' out of respect for my new grown-up status. My first job was at the supermarket down the road, and 'Bins Mann' went on my name badge; 'Mann' being my maiden name. No shortage of laughs at 'Phil and Don's International Food Superstore'.

Then guess what? I married Phil, my boss, and became Ginny Finney, or if you prefer, Ginny 'Binny' Finney. I hated it, and so did Phil, so I became Binfin for short, and Binfin I've remained. Virginia is now remembered only by the dusty old box under the stairs where my birth certificate lives and is unknown to my newer friends and the mums at the school.

 Did I mention I was now a parent? That was a shock, I can tell you. Phil wanted to name him Vincent after his grandfather, which would have made him Vinny Finney. At that point, I punched him in the head.