A lot of baggage comes with the name Tim. I have not forgotten Martin Amis’s 20-year-old description of Tim Henman as “the first human being called Tim to achieve anything at all”. More recently Will Self wrote: “There’s little doubt that your life chances will be constrained should your otherwise risk-averse parents have had the temerity to Tim you.” This was in a review of the JD Wetherspoon pub chain, the many faults of which Self put down to founder Tim Martin never being able “to escape the fact of his Timness”.

At the time I was summoned on to the Today programme to defend being called Tim, along with the wine writer Tim Atkin. He came armed with a roll call of accomplished Tims, which sounded like a list of people the programme editors might have rung before we finally said yes.

One in five mothers say they chose wrong name for their child, poll finds Read more

Amis and Self believe the poor showing of Tims is the result of nominative determinism: the name Tim carries expectations of inconsequentiality that anyone so christened will eventually come to embody. Gallingly, research suggests they may be right.

According to a new study from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, people can even match the name Tim to the correct face. Bobs are supposed to have round, outgoing faces. Marks are masculine looking. Bills are jolly; Joes have an air of success. Tims, on the other hand, look pinched and reserved. Study participants were able separate the Tims from the Bobs – with up to 40% accuracy – just by looking at photographs.

This “Dorian Gray” effect is said to be because of social structuring. Tims grow to fit the character suggested by the name, to the extent that it can affect one’s facial musculature. It sounds preposterous – but it would also explain why I’m so pinched and reserved.

The only way to escape this fate is to fight the prevailing stereotype from within. I sometimes seek common cause with other Tims on social media, including the author Tim Moore, who appends the hashtag #TimArmy to his replies. But we both know he’s being ironic. There is no honour among Tims – we’re not proud, and we cannot be united. Solidarity is fine for Twitter, but in the real world it’s every Tim for himself.

Knowing my limitations

I like to think that I’ve overcome the limits my name has placed on me, but every once in a while someone chooses to remind me of my place. Just last week I found myself on stage before a large audience. As I stepped up to the microphone there was an anticipatory hush, which I allowed to ripen a little too long. Taking advantage of the silence, a member of the crowd – with studied, Centre Court disenchantment – shouted: “COME ON, TIM.”

I wonder if that ever happens to Tim Berners-Lee.

Doris and the park mystery

Storm Doris 'weather bomb': 94mph winds, travel chaos and snow – live updates Read more

Last week, as Storm Doris chuntered into London, I found myself standing at an upstairs window, narrating the events outside to my son, who was trying to revise for his mock exams.

“The police are driving into the park,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“Now they’re talking to a jogger,” I said. “Perhaps they’re looking for witnesses.”

“To what?” he asked.

“We can’t know at this stage,” I said. “A robbery, maybe. Or a stabbing.”

“I’m trying to work,” he said.

“Yeah, me too,” I said. “Now they’re talking to some dog walkers. It might have been a dog attack.”

“Seriously, I have mechanics tomorrow,” he said.

“Why are the dog walkers smiling?” I asked. “Now they’re putting police tape across the front gates. What is happening?”

As I stood there reflecting on the way the neighbourhood has changed over the past 25 years, I had to accept that where once the authorities might have put up police tape because of a mugging or a body in the undergrowth or, in one memorable case, a discarded terrorist bomb, this was something I’d never witnessed before.

“You know what?” I said. “I actually think they’re closing the park because it’s a bit windy.”

“Can you go away?” he asked.