Many houses in Pinamar have names.

Why not ours then?

My grandmother named hers in the south of England after Ballynafoy, her birthplace in Belfast. Then for me it would be Brentwood, Los Angeles or Santa Monica. Maybe West L.A. Hmm, not so poetic as Ballynafoy.

My wife shot down any such intentions. “Don’t even think about it,” she said.

So I left it at that.

Most of the names are lame anyway, The Chill Out, Two Below Par, 4X4 Full. Stuff like that.

So our house is nameless. Just the traditional numbers.

Then a friend from the city brought up the subject during a visit. “You ever thought of naming your house?”

“Nah,” we said.

But she and my wife got to giggling about it and they came up with the perfect name. The Brick House.

Original, I thought. Our house is made of bricks. What about Log Cabin?

So the topic died away – until we were burgled. That got my thoughts racing again. A name that’ll tell the bastards to keep away. Get Lost, Scram, Don’t Try It. Or: Try Next Door, We’ve Been Done Already. It’s Empty.

“That’s not funny,” my wife said. And she, with her more straight-to-the-point and bawdy tongue, came up with the stopper: Fuck Off.

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