Jordan is my married name. My husband wasn’t keen on there being two Dr Jordan’s in the house, but I’d had enough of my childhood surname of Maule. Even if people don’t laugh (and I well remember a certain Mr Lynch gripped by uncontrollable mirth when he heard my name), no one can ever spell it. Maul? Mall? Moore? Mule?
(Quite a nice motto – mercy is inherent in the brave. The crest is supposed to be a dragon spouting fire from both ends – luckily the rear end they are talking about is the tip of the tail.)
I figured also that my choice of surname was between my husband’s name and my Dad’s name – both men anyway – so if I made my own choice then that’s a feminist action. Both names were reasonably equally upper class, as opposed to my Mum’s maiden name of Senn, which has a rich history of Swiss goat herders behind it (no, I lie – on further investigation Senn is an occupational name in high German meaning “milker of cows”. Not a lot better, although Fonterra might like to persuade me otherwise).
The Jordan coat of arms looks equally posh – although the version we have in our hallway (not this one) somehow has a rugby ball in it for some reason? (up the top there)
The motto translates most literally as “struck down, I arise” but is much more amusing when described as Simon’s father did in his speech on our wedding day – something more like “he falls down but keeps getting up again”.
