Janiel

I have inhabited Planet Earth for 20 years and 3 months. I've been here longer than terrorism, Justin Bieber, Facebook and the ASBO.

But while my Dad can recall these names without blinking (it was a surreal conversation about Bieber), he still struggles to put a name to his first child's face.

I don't know whether it's a sign of him getting old, losing his marbles or just being confused at my presence in general. What I do know is, sometimes, he calls me 'Janiel', a horrible hybrid of my name, and my brother's name James.

I'd expect him to perhaps lose track of days or god forbid, not remember my birthday. But my name? He bloody chose the thing, therefore you'd have thought the fairly simple, bio-syllabic utterance would be on the tip of the tongue. Not a chance. Perhaps he's forgotten who I am since I've gone to uni. Silly old man.

My worrying lack of identity is one of the pleasures of returning home to Essex on the odd occasion. Like an infantryman returning home from the slums of Iraq to civilisation back home in England, every so often I pop across the Dartford Crossing away from the squalors of Medway into the somehow-more-attractive county of Essex.

We've had it rough recently. The cigar-chomping fat blokes who run ITV decided it would be a laugh to get some cameras and follow round the rejects from the Jeremy Kyle show then call it 'The Only Way Is Essex'. Instead of getting someone grand to narrate it like Morgan Freeman they got Denise Van 'bleedin' Outen to do it, and instead of it being an advert for Essex, it ended being an advert for abortions, or culling humans in general. Naturally, this turned the good people of this fine county into a laughing stock, conjuring up unwanted stereotypes and undoing all the good work fine ambassadors like Jodie Marsh and Helen Mirren had done. And it was so very orange; such colour on someone's face could only be achieved by puking on it or Photoshopping it.

Look at her, she's a saint.

One of the reasons I come home is to have the ol' barnet trimmed. Judging by some of the hair styles that exist around Chatham it's fairly likely the only tools available for such a job is a chainsaw, weedhacker or a blow torch. Needless to say, Essex is the home of hairdressing. It's a profession so valued by teenagers that only the prospect of running a tanning salon exceeds the giddy career ambitions of potential hairdressers.

Unfortunately, potential hairdressers probably spend the entire school day daydreaming, thinking of a 'short back and sides' or a 'full colouring', leaving them with very little time to do any learning. This makes them...(trying to avoid a libellous word)...kooky (I think I got away with it). I had to explain to my substitute hairdresser all about the currency exchange system and how $1.6 to £1 is 'reasonable but not as good as it could have been'. It was like something out of a Lady GaGa video, but I was felt happy that my hairdresser could approach a Bureau de Change without breaking down in tears then disintegrating into dust. Plus the Fred had been tidied up, so it was all good.

Fred you ask? Fred Astaire? Hair?? I forget I'm not in Essex anymore and Cockney Rhyming Slang is seen as a disability.

Apart from not having a clue what name he gave to me, my Dad is also 'pretty Essex'. We spent half of the journey back to Kent discussing his last few weeks' driving escapades. The grin on his face when he was describing how he raced a Honda CR-V down the M4, managed to pull in front of him, braking sharply at the same time, was priceless. It's the sort of thing someone from Yorkshire would simply shake their head and tut at, but my Dad simply lapped up the scenario of sharing driving mishaps with his son. And he expects me to drive like a Nun, hypocrite.

I often go home of weekend but never feel compelled enough to write about them. They're not particularly interesting, nor does much happen. I basically eat food I couldn't even afford to look at on a student budget and get my washing done. Yet the abomination of 'Janiel' forced my hand. My Dad is a blogger's goldmine. Observing him in the everyday world is like watching a gorilla interact with trees in the wild. A few years ago he even had a banana binge, whereby he'd clear the planet's rainforests of their bananas within a week. Now he's back to his trusty orange and apple combination, which is a shame. He made an excellent Silverback gorilla.