Grandad’s Guide to Changing Your Name

Turns out, if I ever need to vanish—say, into a witness protection program, or just a quiet caravan park outside Dubbo—my grandfather’s got me sorted.

Now, this is a man who spent most of his pay packet at the pub and left my grandmother with sixpence to feed three hungry boys for a week. Classic old-school husbandry.

It all came to a head one night in the kitchen. Voices raised, tempers broke, and the dinner table became a battlefield. My grandmother hurled crockery and sauce bottles at her husband, and then walked out of the house without looking back. My father, still a boy, followed her—though she hadn’t asked him to. He followed her out into a different life, leaving his two younger brothers behind. Sixteen years passed before he saw them again.

But somewhere between the smokes, the beer, and the estranged family dynamics, he became an accidental life coach.

See, I barely knew him growing up. He was local, technically speaking, but not exactly active in the grandparenting department. More like a mysterious side character in a family soap opera. The kind who turns up in season six for a bit of backstory and chaos.

Anyway, one day in my teens, he pops in unannounced. No gifts. No apologies. Just opinions. My parents sat there in tight-lipped silence while he held court on politics, beer prices, and the subtle art of evasion. And that’s when he drops the pearl:

“If you ever change your name, keep your first name. Otherwise, someone’ll call it out in a pub, and if you don’t turn around, you’re cactus.”

Absolute gold.

I filed it away somewhere between “how to back a trailer” and “don’t light a cigarette while siphoning petrol.” But lately, it’s been floating to the top again. Not because I’m planning a full fugitive rebrand (yet), but because the idea of picking a new name has a weird sort of appeal.

People do it all the time. Self-discovery, escaping toxic relationships, ditching the family legacy, or just because they’re sick of correcting people. And sure, some folks go full Shakespearean about it. But me? I’m keeping it simple.

Same first name. New last name. Done.

If I ever pull the pin and leg it, you’ll still be able to shout my first name across a sticky pub carpet and I’ll spin around, schooner in hand. The surname? That’s the fun part. Could be pulled straight from the classifieds, a footy team line-up, or whatever’s trending on Google News. Something with just enough flair to sound legit, but not enough for Centrelink to raise an eyebrow.

Honestly, Grandad might’ve been a walking cautionary tale, but he wasn’t wrong about this one. Reinvention is an art. And the trick is knowing what to keep and what to chuck. The surname’s just window dressing. The first name? That’s your anchor. So if you ever hear me being introduced as Peter Mulchison or Peter St. Ives-Gazette, just know—I’m not dodgy. I’m prepared.