If you are an English perfectionist, look away. This will be your nightmare. If it isn't broken, it does not need fixing, my grandfather would tell me, in his grammatically correct fashion. In other words, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.
The problem is, my Grandad, that something is now broke. And it's the English language. The infiltration of old names with new spellings came first. The more vowels the merrier.
I come from a decade of Traceys and Tonyas, Kims and Sandras. There were the more adventurous choices - a sprinkling of Tiffanys or Mercedes, the odd Crystal or Amber.
Alright, so it wasn't Nirvana, but it felt kind of safe.
There were not 57 different spellings of Michaela, boys weren't named Myson and girls were not called Abcde. Even Tiffany did not have three "e"s.
Now this generation are becoming adults and their "unique" names are showing up on real estate signs and the sides of trucks, and it can be hard to have your tax done by someone whose mother thought Sharleeze was a sensible choice.
To my probably blinkered way of thinking, these names do not pass the street test. They do not sound good when you are yelling them down the street at a child who has not come home, they would not look good above a law firm, and they are not fitting for residents of a retirement village.
But whatevs bro, people can't help their names.
It's their English innovations on social media that is more galling. "Yous dont know wot I bin through," one laments. "Don't stress gorge we got ya back," come the words of encouragement.
Illiteracy has become its own language.
However, I have discovered the secret language of teenagers. You just add an offended "-uh" here and there.
"Yes-uh! I have done my homework-uh! I already told you-uh!"
Apparently it doesn't work for me, when I respond "OK-uh". I just get the death stare and an Olympic-sized sigh.
Anyways, the Olympic sigher and I were watching a breakfast show when a reporter told us about a band called Justice Crew who had a hit with a song called "Cue Serra".
I ran out of the room screaming.
There was a brief silence before a voice came floating out from in front of the television.
"Irmagosh, Mum-uh! Calm-uh down-uh. Sirriously, it's not that bad-uh!"
If anyone needs me, I'll be rocking back and forth and singing Que Sera. Sirriously.
Marie Low is a freelance journalist