Of all wonderful things I could have inherited from my mother, it seems that getting the names of things wrong is going to be my legacy. It used to drive me absolutely spitting mad. I remember once having to leave a family party because, when, as a cool fashionista teenager I nearly shared a flat with Bob Geldof (I know, I know, lucky escape), my mum was going round telling people that 'Sarah's going to flat-share with Bill Goldof.' I kid you not.
Anyway, I try and I try and I try and I just can't get these things right anymore either. So when my son got a job working at Gourmet Burger Kitchen, I told everyone he was working at Burger King. He spent ages coaching me - 'it's G.B.K. mum. How hard can it be?' Very very hard.
But, hey, his lessons must have stuck somewhere. Now, as we cheer GO TEAM GB, GO TEAM GB we're all as synchronised as the divers in our house. Or nearly all of us are.
There's one lone voice chanting for GO TEAM GBK.
The judges are not pleased.