A long long time ago I got to know this bloke who everyone called Clint. Then one day I found out that this was actually his nickname and not his real one, I can admit to feeling a tad disappointed.
One day after lunch I approached Clint and said, “Alright Clint, so why do they call you Clint then?”
He looked at me, went to say something then stopped himself, blinked twice in disdain and looked down and left at his chest. A label on his jumper read, EASTWOOD, in one inch high lettering.
“Why do you think?” He said back to me with a look of utter confusion.
“Errrm. I dunno. I’ve never really been able to figure out why people call you Clint when your real name is David. The others wouldn’t tell me and said I ‘d have to ask you.”
He shook his head in both pity and amusement, sighed and looked at the floor. “Maybe it’s because my surname is Eastwood. That’s just a guess mind you, I mean I couldn’t be sure. Why don’t you give it some thought and get back to me when you’ve figured it out?”
The penny dropped.