Why I am Easy to Find on Google
My dad, Ethiopia, 1970s
My parents were married when I was born.
But not to each other.
My dad was a notorious womaniser. He had chased my mother all over Addis Ababa, where they both lived as expats.
My mother came to Ethiopia from England in the early sixties, and taught English at the International School. My father, born in Egypt to French and Italian parents, worked there for the oil company Total.
The fallout from their affair was messy, and one of the consequences was me. Of course I was blissfully unaware of any of this, most of the trouble was already over by the time I was born.
As I found out years later, the fallout from an affair can be catastrophic for those caught in the crossfire, especially the children. My dad ruthlessly packed away his wife and three kids and sent them to live in London, a city they had absolutely no connection to.
My mother also had two children from her first marriage. She kept the youngest with her and sent the oldest, who was only seven, to live with his dad. She gave the child the news by way of a note in his pocket, which he found after she had left for the airport.
My parents were madly in love with each other, but in the white heat of that love there was no thought for all the broken lives they left in their wake.
My childhood was idyllic in many ways, living the privileged life of an expat under the hot African sun. But like the white picket fences in a David Lynch movie, if you poke below the surface you find all the messiness and heartbreak that come with human fallibility.
I knew nothing about any of this during my childhood. I knew I had siblings, half-brothers and half-sisters, and that they lived with their parents, apart from my sister Michelle who lived with us. But I didn't know about my parents' affair and all its messy consequences, of which my birth was one.
Another consequence was that I was given the wrong name.
Ethiopia in the early seventies was in the midst of a violent revolution. My parents had taken me to the French consulate after my birth to register me as a French citizen, but due to their marital status (they were still both married to their original partners, and not to each other), the French officials didn't want to know.
So in an act of incredible generosity, my mother's soon-to-be former husband agreed to put his name on my birth certificate, knowing that I was not his son. Thanks to him I now had a British passport, and a way out of Ethiopia.
And so to this day, my real father is not officially recognised in any official capacity. Not on my birth certificate, nor on any of his French paperwork.
No big deal. I just lived my life as Richard Harris - the surname of my mother's first husband, a man I only ever met once, just long enough to say hello to, when I was twenty-four.
That changed once I had children of my own. My father's name was Yot, an unusual and rare name in France, and my dad didn't want his family name to die out.
My father suggested a DNA test so that he could recognise me as his son. In France, that was the only way to proceed, with a court case and an officially recognised test.
It seemed like a lot of hassle, so we took an easier way out. In England, where I had now been living for years, the law is less rigid. I just changed my name by sworn declaration, a laughably simple legal process, and I was now officially called Richard Yot. A name I would also pass on to my children.
Prior to changing my name, I hadn't given the matter any thought at all. I just did it to please my dad.
But afterwards, I realised that having a unique and unusual name was extremely useful. Google Richard Yot and I am the only result. Google Richard Harris and I am eclipsed by a famous namesake.
So, for that, I am grateful to the twists of fate that gave me my name.
You know that if you ever need to find me, I am just a Google search away. And, after reading my story, you also know why I am so easy to find.