NOT long ago I wrote in this column that I wanted to be called Mummy (regular readers may recall my discomfort at my still very little son deciding to call me Mum).

Well, it’s true you should be careful what you wish for because I have now changed my mind.

I’ll take Mum, or Mother or even Ma.

In fact I’ll take anything other than what he’s now calling me, which is… Jessie.

Jessie is a nice name – but it’s not mine.

It’s the name of the cowgirl in Toy Story – the character my boy has decided to allocate to me.

He, incidentally, is insisting I call him Woody in return. I probably don’t have to explain to you that that isn’t his name either.

I suppose it’s slightly better than the last time I was given a new name.

For a spell he insisted on calling me Penny and refused to answer unless I called him Sam (that’s as in Fireman Sam and his colleague obviously).

In a way that was worse because, of course, he could quite easily be called Sam.

So when out and about I was always left with the slightly disconcerting feeling that passing shoppers were walking past idly speculating on the nature of our relationship.

Perhaps they thought Penny was the wicked stepmother, nanny, au pair or big sister?

Okay, I admit I’m pushing it a bit with that last one.

I suppose I shouldn’t complain.

His father has been renamed after the horse in Toy Story.

So his new name – shouted repeatedly and loudly in public – is Bullseye.

This alternative world order means I sometimes have to concentrate hard during conversations to work out who is being talked about at any given time.

What is interesting, though, is that my son always makes himself the main character.

I originally thought he might be shaping up to have some sort of hero complex but now I just think he likes to be centre of attention.

The rest of the family have to content themselves with cameos and bit parts.

In many ways that’s probably very much a reflection of family life.

We have long realised our place in it – which is very much as his supporting cast.

He’s lucky that we are more than happy to play those roles.

Or perhaps that’s the only part that parents with young children ever really get to play.