A rose by any other name

What's in a name? Proust writes about this in the early stages of "A la Recherche", when as a young boy he is disappointed to learn that the bearer of a proud and ancient aristocratic name, redolent of history, is an ordinary-looking woman in an ugly coat.

People often address me by names other than my own. I don't mean that strangers misremember my name, these are people who know me quite well, and the name they assign me is almost always that of someone dear to them. It's happened all my life, and over the years I have become quite used to it.

U and our ex-colleague B both used to call me "G", and U still does occasionally. My favourite cousin once called me by her husband's name. Sally called me (name of the father of her children) once. Slim sometimes calls me (name of the father of her child), which I find worrying given their violent adversarial relationship; she even calls me "Larry" once in a while, which I find puzzling but very sweet.

Does it matter that you all call me "Udge"? Would your image of me be different if you learned that my name was Montgomery, or Cary, or Tim?