No one has the right to complain about his life.
That was the opinion of Boneh P. Cheeseman. No his life. one has the right to complain because they didn’t have
For one thing, they didn’t have his name. It was a matter of routine at school to be called Cheddarman, Swissman, and by the more sophisticated, Brieman. The Boneh didn’t help either. It was a fine name for his grandfather who it had originated with, but not for a fifteen-year-old living in the twenty-first century. It was Hebrew for beaver. His great-grandfather had been some kind of an English theologian who studied the Old Testament in Hebrew. When he had come to Canada, he had named his son for the great Canadian symbol.
Using the P. wouldn’t help. In a complete lapse of sanity, his mother had given him the middle name of Percival.
And speaking of his mom, she had gone and done the worst possible thing a mother could do. When he was five, she had died, leaving him to live with his Gran and her unmarried brother. His great-uncle also lived with the burden of an uncool name, Cawley. It meant cow meadow.