What's in a name?

Mine's Roger Lester. Well?

Yeah. Agreed. Nothing much to derive from that. Conjures up no images. Neutral. Dull.

But nicknames. That's something different. And I've got two. One I like, the other not so much.

First, the insulting one. Thanks to my missus, Vera. She calls me "Roger the Bodger." I should be so lucky in love!
Just because I really dig Do-It-Yourself. Making things, fixing things, tweaking things. To me it's a no-brainer. Saves money. Keeps strangers out of the apartment. And what satisfaction, standing back, admiring your own handiwork. In my imagination, I'm a Repair Shop star.
Vera says everything I touch is cursed. Nothing in the apartment looks right, or works properly.
She says we live in a death trap! Honestly! She doesn't know how lucky she is to be married to a true craftsman. Why, just a few weeks ago I had rewired the entrance hall.

The other one? "Lucky". Roger "Lucky" Lester. That's what my mates call me.
Let me tell you about the night when that nickname applied in Spades.

*

It was the final of the area pub Pool tournament. Joe "Joker" Jennings and I had come through all eight qualifying rounds during the last six months. He was one hell of a player. But I was pretty nifty myself. However, I should also have luck on my side.
It came down to the last frame. Winner take all. I was on the black but completely blocked out by scattered object balls. I took deep breaths and tried to focus. Visualise the shot. In my imagination, there was no complication. In reality, the stroke was a disaster. A total mishit. My initial despair gradually changed to disbelief. The cue ball careered around the table, bouncing off three cushions, evading all obstacles and potting the black from behind.
I should be so lucky! I tried to keep a straight face as my sporting rival congratulated me on a winning stroke of genius.
Wow! A celebration! The sweetest of sensation. I'm dreaming? No, it's real.

Twenty minutes later I was on my way home. It was cold, dark and the rain was drenching. Did I mind? My feet seemed to glide over the shiny cobblestones. I kept a firm grip on my prize. Four crisp new fifty pound notes, nestling in my left trouser pocket.
The Eagle had been crammed that evening. There were quite a few unfamiliar faces, perhaps unsurprisingly. One of them, a tall bearded youth, had left the pub just after me. He had pulled his hoodie over his head. I quickened my pace. He also speeded up. Was he stalking me? What did he want? Was he after the prize money? My heart was thumping.
As I rounded the corner leading into our lane I broke into a run, fishing my keys out of my jacket with my right hand. I heard heavy footsteps pounding apace behind. I ducked into the dark entrance hall and made to slam the door. Damn. The hoodie had jammed it with one foot. I heaved with all my might. He was pushing inwards. With a sinking feeling I realised he was stronger than me. Trusting to my legendary luck I accepted the inevitable and briskly stepped further back into the hall.
The intruder stumbled forward over the threshold, unbalanced. He reached to his left for the light switch.
"Christ!" he shrieked as a vivid blue flash lit up the hall, accompanied by an ominous crackling.
"I've been electrocuted!"
As he struggled to regain his equilibrium, the Welcome mat skidded beneath his feet, throwing the miscreant to his right.
I found myself, perhaps dissociating, thinking: "those anchor pads I replaced last week must have been faulty."
The intruder grabbed for the light fitting on the opposite wall, newly installed that morning as part of the rewiring.
"Shit!" he bellowed as it came away in his hand and he pitched forward onto his knees.
This was my chance. There was no hesitation. I released my prize-winning pool cue from its carrying case, slung over one shoulder, and thrashed it down on top of the intruder's now uncovered head. For the second time that night I relished the opportunity to vanquish a dangerous opponent. My nemesis slumped to the floor in a shapeless heap.
Vera emerged from the bedroom, awoken by the rumpus.
"'Phone the Police, Vera. 999. Do it now!"
I had got lucky again. Or had I? My beautiful varnished cue was split in two, one half in my hand, the other at my feet. I started to weep, then paused. After all, wasn't I a craftsman supreme?
I inspected the break. "Mmm."
"With a bit of luck I can fix that. It'll be as good as new!"