Lots of you know that this is the Pog Blog due to my nickname. I was given it around the age of two and a good few decades later my family only use my proper name if they are cross with me. Family friends call me Pog. I don’t think Little Pea realises I have any name other than ‘Auntie Pog’ (which I rather love). My number plate includes Pog as does my personal email (although today someone read it back to me as ‘Podgy’ which is almost as bad as when my sisters ‘accidentally’ type ‘Pig’ on messages to me…). Pog is more my name than any other, really.
Anyway, at the weekend I tidied. Not just a little bit. I moved a considerable percentage of the contents of my house into the loft and filled the car with bags to take to the tip. I really tidied. One of the boxes I went through had cards and papers and all sorts (and I admit, I couldn’t find the willpower to sort through them all, so the whole lot just went in the loft), but as I moved things around, something fell out. It was another demonstration of by lack of artistic ability, but this one was from a long, long time ago. And rather proves how long the Pog name has hung around me (because honestly, my drawing hasn’t improved much, but my handwriting is marginally better):
I have no idea how old I would have been, but I know I didn’t learn joined up writing until I was 5 ish so it’s some time after then. Could this be the earliest written documentation of me being Pog? Possibly the original Pog? :o)