Umberto Eco once wrote that one could identify a pornographic movie because all of the action occurs in real time. I have always found that remark hilarious. In one instant he sweeps aside all the usual debates. Forget about whether it’s gratuitous, whether it’s graphic, whether it has artistic value, etc. Does it happen in real time? Definitely porn.

I have my own little genre-identifying axiom about how you can tell trashy fiction: the characters repeatedly address each other by name. “Well, John, I think we have ourselves a situation here.” “Yes, Mary, we certainly do.” I’m not sure why this particular kind of purple prose should be a hallmark of airport-bookstall fiction, except maybe that it allows the lazy writer to tell the story with pages of dialogue unencumbered by tedious narration or exposition.

This irritates me particularly because people in one-on-one situations rarely call each other by name in real life. My husband, for instance, never does; I sometimes administer little pop quizzes to make sure he still knows it. “I love you…” he whispers; I prompt, “What’s my name?” So far, he’s passed.

But things have changed around here on the name front. At this odd juncture in Aitch’s journey to fluency in English, he’s taken to appending the name of this conversational partner to every utterance. “Plane, Daddy!” “This way, Mommy!” “No cookies, Dog.” “Be careful, Gordon,” etc. Husband and I always feel compelled to respond in kind: “I see the plane, Aitch!” “Thank you, honey!”Sometimes we even respond in unison. Now, at this point we’re just happy that Aitch is using Mommy and Daddy accurately, but it does give even the most casual conversations a strangely formal, almost ritualistic feel.