As a child I wished I had been called Peter.

A good name – a solid, strong name. From the Greek word ‘petros' meaning ‘stone' or ‘rock'.

According to the New Testament, the apostle Simon became Saint Peter. Why couldn't I become Peter? I would even compromise and drop the Saint. It seems every language in the world has its take on Peter – Piter, Pietari, Bitrus, Pathrus, Peder – and so on. So why not Peter?

But I was Hunter – a Hunter amongst Brians, Barrys, Trevors, Kevins, Alans, Lewises, Ronalds and Ians. And Peter's of course.

I even named a hedgehog that lived in our cellar Peter. I would call him Peter as I fed him snails and slugs and other large insects. He probably would have worn ‘Mr Tiggywinkle' better. But for a boy, Beatrix Potter didn't cut it with ‘Roy of the Rovers', ‘The famous Five' and the ‘Phantom'. So the hedgehog was Peter.

I simply did not like my name. It set me apart. I spent inordinate amounts of time explaining to people that Hunter was my given name, my Christian name. Then more inordinate amounts of time explaining that I was named after a Hunter McAndrew – a Scot with whom my father trained for the bomber command.

And there were endless occasions when someone would call out for a Mr Hunter-Wells – the man who would be Peter became hyphenated. Would that have made me Hunter Hunter-Wells like Joseph Heller's fictitious character Major Major Major Major from ‘Catch-22'.

People would often draw parallels with Hunter S.Thompson – and I enjoyed my name being uttered in the same breath as an extraordinarily clever, drunken, larrikin ‘gonzo' whose pickled remains were fired into space aboard a rocket.

He once said: 'I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me”.

I liked being a Hunter then. Even though this Hunter couldn't compete with that Hunter on any level.

In recent years (six decades later) I have quietly embraced my name – especially as parents became even crueller to their kids – for example, Apollo Bowie Flynn, Summer Rain, Royal Reign and Titan Jewel – nonsense nomenclatures. Hunter sounded remarkably ordinary, even Peter-ish.

Then some clever dick, affogato-supping Auckland television script writer saw my name on a charge sheet or toilet wall, liked it, and created Hunter McKay for ‘Shortland Street'. Bloody lovely – there goes my name.

Hunter McKay, an intelligent, womanising egotist absorbed into ethical storylines about the dangers of modelling, HIV and drug addiction for the TV soap masses. There goes my name and there goes my reputation.

Anyhow Hunter McKay, I suspect, single-handedly made my name as common as muck. To the point it was the seventh most popular boys name last year. Isn't this a breach of intellectual property or a brand violation, or a breach full stop?

It doesn't stop there. Last week there was an advertisement in The Weekend Sun. 'Hi, my name is Hunter, I am a beautiful staffy-cross puppy. I came to the SPCA with my sister Holly. We were found abandoned on a walking track and we were very small and sick.”

Even orphaned mongrels are being named after me. Just about enough.

And last night when I responded to my name being called on The Strand it was the final indignity.

This Hunter was under attack from another bloody Hunter – a tiny exuberant schnauzer-chihuahua-cross with attitude a lot bigger than he, was snapping at my ankles. Perhaps that Hunter was being protective of his name too.

Regardless, I will be consulting with the Department of Internal affairs over deed polls procedures. And for the modest investment of about $154.20 I will become anything but Hunter.

Peter has got a nice ring to it.