It began, in the days when she was still married and not out every night partying, with Britney Spears. She and the loathsome Kevin called their first born Preston. It continued, almost without pause, as Chantelle - the celebrity who wasn't at the time, though she is now - went gooey over an obscure pop singer on Celebrity Big Brother. And, reader, she married him. He was a Preston, too. Thus, after decades of total obscurity, the old, proud moniker is surging again - up to 304 (from 1,650th!) on the 2006 list of most favoured UK appellations.

Stand up and display a ghostly smile, Preston Sturges. Front or back, we've had many lean years. After Paul Preston, supreme historian of the Franco years, and Robert Preston, Music Man, there's only been Preston North End to keep us warm (as long as the wind isn't coming straight off the Ribble).

So, suddenly, in an odd sort of way, I'm trendy again. The "Peter" bit might be right down the pan, banished far from the top 50 as the Joes and Jakes of modern Islington take over: but at least Preston has an unlikely, resonant ring. And it isn't like Elvis or Ringo or any of the other pop tabs that come and go, inevitable victims of fashion. This is a name with roots that dug deep for centuries: Domesday Book stuff seemingly doomed to fusty obscurity but rescued now by a frowsy moppet out drinking with Paris Hilton and a rather engaging Essex girl who followed Jordan's example and got spliced as well as famous for 15 minutes.

And the point is: it could happen to you - or to anyone. One minute, William Rees-Mogg is sitting at his desk writing about the return of the gold standard - the next, Christine Aguilera has called some miracle baby Mogg. One minute, David Dimbleby is introducing his 10,000th Question Time - the next, Avril Lavigne has fallen for Dimbleby Drake and the Dum-Dums. It's weird how the carousel of naming turns. Nothing lasts. Everything and everyone dates.

But what comes around, goes around. My dear old mother-in-law was called Elsie by her dad as an act of unilateral aggression. He went down to the register office late, didn't consult and opted for Elsie unadorned, no other names, no wiggle room. She hated it. But when, 100 years on, one of her best friend's children went down to the office and chose a name for his daughter, then it was Elsie all over again (and the toast of Notting Hill).

So welcome back, Preston. See you again around 2106, as Chantelle's great grandchildren get down to work.