Back when King Zog of Albania, not the most popular of monarchs, was travelling Europe to promote a more positive image of himself, Zogina's father, a journalist, covered the story for the English leg of the tour. He found one of the King's daughters very attractive, and in honour of the attachment decided that should he ever have a son of his own, he would call him Zog.

For some years, the nearest he got to fulfilling his wish was as a godfather. The child's father, Zogina's uncle appeared to be convinced by Zogina's dad, that his baby son should bear the name Zog - until he got to the church. There, in a fast about-turn he declared, "There's no way I'm going to have a son called Zog. He's going to be called Anthony!"

Ah well. But then Zogina's father married, and when his wife became pregnant, he thought this is the moment he'd been waiting for. Except that the child was a girl. A bit of a hitch, but nothing that couldn't be got around. She was named Zogina. In due course a baby boy arrived and there was no trouble over his name. At last! Zog.

Pleased as punch, Zogina's father wrote poste-haste to King Zog to let him know he'd called his children after him. The news appealed to the King. "My brother received a gold pen and pencil," says Zogina, spoiling the effect by adding, "they turned out to be tin." But Zogina still proudly wears her gift, a little gold pendant. She remembers the Christmas cards and letters he'd send, "He'd write inside," says Zogina, "'To Zog and Zogina, from Zog - then in brackets, 'King'"

Sadly, neither Zogina nor her brother, met King Zog. But occasionally their names induced interesting behaviour others, "At a party with my brother," recalls Zogina, "I was introduced as Zogina. The woman behind me was a bit tiddly, and I heard her say, 'That's the Queen of Albania.' The King's kicking around here somewhere too!' I felt very regal. Every time I caught her eye, she dropped a little curtsey."