Gabrielle Lucie

In the early stages of a wedding reception, I meet a large middle-aged lady from Paris.  She is a pharmacist and dressed from head-to-toe in shades of grey and silver.  She wears strappy shoes and has a feathered fascinator in her hair.  I ask my question in broken French.  'J'ai une resolution de la nouveau anee', I begin.  After some time we come to an understanding and I get my answer.

Eight hours later we bump into each other again collecting our coats.  Hers is a silver mackintosh with a matching handbag.  I am impressed by her consistency.

Paulo Angelo

Looking for swimming shorts in one of Europe's biggest shopping malls, I go into a trendily over-priced clothing shop.  'What do you think of the store?' asks a shop assistant at the door.  The sides of his head are shaved and the top is a distressed quiff of curly brown hair.  He has defined facial bones, heavy-rimmed black glasses and a ring in the end of his nose.  He is Italian.  'We just opened today', he tells me.  I say that I feel privileged to be amongst the first customers.  He tells me that the second part of his middle name is after his grandmother with the 'a' changed to an 'o'.  I thank him and continue my tour of the shop.

As I am heading out empty handed, he approaches me again.  'So have you collected lots of other middle names today?' he asks.  I explain that I only need one and that his is it.  He asks what it is for and I tell him about the blog.  'Ah.  You're a blogger', he says.  I say that I'd never thought of myself like that.  He accompanies me to the entrance, 'See you around', he says.

I buy my swimming shorts elsewhere.

Raymond

Coming out of the men's toilets in a local pub, I run into two elderly men on a bench facing the door.  They have the look of an institution.  I approach the elder of the two.  He is wearing a shooting hat and a corduroy jacket and his lips are turned into his mouth.  His skin is papery.  On one hand is a glove, in the other is a folded handkerchief.  I have to lean in to hear what he is saying.  He tells me his name and then that he has lost the feather for his hat and is looking for a new one.  His companion, younger and more rotund with a colourful knitted jumper, shakes my hand and starts a conversation.  We discuss how long I have been in the area, music venues and the fact that they used to come to this pub before it was renovated.  The elder of the two tries to remember the name of the big venue in Brixton.  'Fucking huge', he says.  He has a badge on his lapel that says 'Oxjam'.  I leave them to finish their pints.  'It's nice to meet someone who's willing to engage', says the younger.

Gilbert

An art gallery in South London.  I watch a piece of video art about what is inside and what is outside.  On the way out, I approach the curator with my question.  He stands up from where he is seated.  He has thick dreadlocks tied back from his face, a protruding beard and multi-coloured canvas trainers.  Upright, he is surprisingly short.

He answers my question.  'As in ... and George?' I ask.  'No', he replies, 'After my Dad'.  He sits back on his chair and leans back, 'Although I'd never thought of it like that'.

Victoria

On the phone to an important-sounding PA, she asks for my date-of-birth and middle name for administrative purposes.  I ask whether she would mind giving me her middle name in exchange.  There is a pause, a laugh and an answer.

I don't ask for her date-of-birth.

Saskia

'In Germany middle names are mainly for royalty', a young German girl tells me in a traditional London pub.  She has a pink shell-suit jacket made by a fashionable brand and a calmly sardonic tone.  Her hair is tied back in a rough ponytail.  She is not impressed by London.

She tells me that her middle name is not on any official documentation but that her mother had given it to balance out the softness of her first name.  She says she may be related to royalty but only very distantly.

Lee

In an unfamiliar part of north London, I find myself in a hotel conference room on the outskirts of a circle whilst people hand round a microphone.  I have come to meet a friend who has just taken part in a three-day personal development course and am invited in for the final moments.  The participants seem positive, if a little shell-shocked.  There is a lot of smiling, touching and applause.  There are other visitors but when the organiser asks if anyone in the room has never done one of his courses, I am the only one to put my hand up.  He is kind and tells me not to be afraid.

'All you need is love' plays over the tannoy as people begin to disperse.  I sit in a corner whilst my friend does a round of goodbye hugs.  At my request she sends someone over to give me his middle name.  The first is an Israeli with a red T-shirt and a fashionably pulled back woollen hat.  He tells me that middle names are very rare in Israel.  The second is a shyer man with glasses over a hooked nose.  He smiles at my request and gives me an answer.  I wonder if we should talk more and break down our personal barriers but we don't.

I collect my coat and my friend takes me to have a pizza and a beer.

Ann (II) and Anthony (II)

After a satisfying morning mopping, scrubbing and sponging the communal areas of my block with the middle name from February 6th, I go out onto my balcony with a mug of cold Ribena.  The sun is shining and on the adjacent balcony some other neighbours have had the same idea.  One, with short curly hair, owns the flat next door with her husband and the other, an Asian girl with long dark hair and a relaxed demeanour, is their flatmate.  Leaning over our railings we talk about the building, the area and the coming of Summer.  The owner tells me that she and her husband are moving to St Albans to have a baby.  She pats her swelling stomach under a tight T-shirt.  The flatmate is moving to another flat in the building.  She points at the balcony below and to the left.  I feel as though I am in a Mike Leigh version of Melrose Place.  

The flatmate doesn't have a middle name and the owner apologises that hers is so boring.  'It's my Mum's name', she says, 'and my husband's middle name is after his Dad'.  I ask if she thinks this is the reason they got married.  She pauses for reflection.  'Maybe', she decides.

Kay

A sunny afternoon in a London park and the squirrels are making the most of it.  I see one climb a man's trouser leg in pursuit of a proffered tit-bit. 

Walking by the lake is a large couple with cameras and matching black T-shirts.  He has tightly cropped grey hair.  She has hair to her shoulders in curls.  The T-shirts are emblazoned respectively in white; 'My Wife Rocks!' and 'My Husband Rocks!'  I am warmed by the sentiment.  My friend suggests I ask their middle names so I chase after them.

I tell them I like their T-shirts.  She is taking a photograph of some swans.  They look a little confused but thank me.  I ask where they got them from.  'Home', she replies.  'We're from Oklahoma, USA', she says.  He tells me that he is originally from Birmingham but now lives in Oklahoma.  They are here on holiday. 

I reveal the true purpose of my interruption.  She points at her chest and tells me as a matter-of-fact.  Then she points at her husband.  'He doesn't have one', she says.  'I don't have one', he confirms.

I thank them and leave them to enjoy a good day for sight-seeing.

Kristina

Getting off the bus, I am beckoned by an elderly lady with a dark pink padded coat.  She wears a beanie (also pink but a lighter shade) and a green checked scarf.  Her nose is pointed and small white hairs grow from her chin.  She wants me to help her and her tartan shopping trolley down onto the pavement.  I take the trolley first and then lend her my hand.  She keeps hold of it. 

'Are you French?' she asks, as we pause hand-in-hand on the pavement.  I tell her I'm not.  'You have a Latin look about you', she says.  I ask if she lives nearby.  'Oh no', she says, 'I don't live round here.  Too busy.  Too many druggers.'  She tells me she was brought up in Dublin.  'I'm a member of the Roman Catholic Church', she says.  I ask my question.  'What's your name?' she replies.  I tell her.  'That is an English name', she admits, 'What's your surname?' she says, continuing her interrogation.  I tell her.  'Perhaps you've got some French in you, from the past', she says, 'You've got a Latin look about you'.

Still holding hands, I ask my question again.  She tells me her middle name.  'But I don't use it', she says, 'It's too German'.

I thank her.  We squeeze hands and release.

Phillip

A man comes to visit to check my gas and electricity meters.  He is tall and wears a black beanie with a Nike swoosh on the front.  Long hair protrudes from the back and sides.  He has a scraggly beard and his gait is gangly.  I know where the meters are so the transaction is swift but friendly.  On the landing I make my request.  'Right', he replies and gives me his name.  I ask is it is spelt with one or two 'l's.  'Two', is his answer.  We wish each other good days.

(The Nike 'swoosh' was designed by Carolyn Davidson in 1971 while she was a graphic design student at Portland State University.  The prospective founder of Nike was there teaching accounting.  A chance meeting resulted in him asking her to think of design ideas for the new brand that he was launching.  She invoiced $35 for her work to which his reaction was, 'I don't love it but I think it will grow on me'.)

Helen

The waitress recommends that I have my black forest ham, artichoke and brie sandwich on toasted ciabatta rather than panini.  I take her advice and don't regret it. 

'That's a funny new year's resolution', she says as I am leaving.  She has blonde hair tied in a bun.

Xavier

Not strictly the middle name of someone I don't know but stumbling through websites looking for inspiration I come across www.babynamegenie.com.  On it is useful advice about how to go about picking a middle name for your child.  A helpful starting tip is that 'The ideal middle name should flow and not wrap your tongue up in knots'.  They also suggest that 'A long middle name can nicely compliment a short first and last name. A short middle name can smooth out a long first and last name combination'.  The sound of the initial is of primary importance; 'Hard sounding letters like "D", "J", and "T" sound stronger than letters like "L" and "C"'.  However, in case all of this should leave you in a tizz, they end with the reassurance that we shouldn't 'stress too much about finding the perfect middle name--unless you think your child will be a president, poet or doctor. Most people don't use their middle name in daily life'.  

They offer a service called the 'Middle Name Generator'.  All you have to come up with is a first and last name, specify a sex and they will do the rest.  I decided to put in my own name and out of three suggestions, this was number one (the other two were 'Patrick' and 'Noa').  Today I imagine the person I would have been had this facility been available to my parents at the time of my birth. 

Possibly a president, poet or doctor.

(I also put my name into the 'Baby Name Test Drive' facility which enables you to see how your baby's name would sound in the 'real world'.  Alongside such everyday phrases such as, 'Richard, could you please set the table?' and, 'Does Richard like avocado?' are the more exciting, 'Richard Crawley, come on down! You're the next contestant!' and ego-boosting, 'You'll have to see Richard Crawley about that. He will know what to do'.  My favourite, however, and I think most encouraging must be, 'Richard, it's not the end of the world. It's just a car. You are more important than a car.') 

Grace

A friend and I are served by a friendly duo in a small eaterie in a covered market in South London.  The lady who waits our table has a tattoo of a butterfly on the inside of her right wrist and lively hair.  She is pleased that we enjoy the food.

When the time comes to pay, we don't have enough money between us and they don't take cards.  They are happy to trust that we will not scarper whilst visiting a cash point but my friend leaves her cycle helmet as guarantee.  The place is called French and Grace and, on return, I ask if they are the two to whom the name refers.  Our waitress points to the other, 'She's French', she says, 'but I'm not Grace.  I'm just a friend helping out'.  Then she adds. 'Although my middle name's Grace'.  My friend (who is aware of this project and has by now picked up her cycle helmet) and I exchange a knowing look but say nothing.  'It seems you have to have it somewhere in your name to work here', the waitress says.

As we leave she says that she hopes we will come back.  We say we will.

Claire (II)

In a small and crowded foyer I bump into an acquaintance ('a person known slightly esp. falling short of intimacy' Chambers English Dictionary).  We make small talk.  I notice that his female companion is seated with two crutches by her side.  She wears a large knitted slipper instead of a left shoe.  I ask briefly about her accident and then move onto her middle name.  She tells me it is with an 'i' because her mother preferred it that way.

There is a pause. Then, unasked, she proffers, 'If you want a story attached to it, I used not to know how to spell it'.  I appreciate her goodwill and ask her to elaborate.  She tells me that she had to witness a wedding when she was eleven or twelve (we both noted but glossed over the peculiarity of this fact).  It was the first time she had been asked to write her whole name and she didn't know how to spell the middle.  Cleverly, she resolved the situation by smudging the ink with her thumb.

Returning to my friend ('a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard' www.dictionary.com), I thank her for her help and say I hope to see them both soon. 

I didn't ask at what age she did learn the spelling.

Rebecca

In the pub and closing time approaches without a middle name.  The girl behind the bar has bright red hair tied in a high bun and a tattoo on the back of her neck.  She is wearing a stripy long-sleeved T-shirt.  My request is greeted with a hearty laugh and she asks for mine in return.  I agree to the exchange.  She gives me her full name.  I note that our surnames half-rhyme.  She says that we might as well be married.  I return to my table with three pints and a sense of achievement.

Ade

For charity, I visit a large bar near Picadilly Circus.  There are flashing lights, popular hits and half-price cocktails.  The barmaids all wear identical brightly-coloured and tightly fitted dresses with knee-high white leather boots.  One of them looks at me blankly when I try to ask my question whilst ordering a caipirinha.  I decide it is not worth pursuing.

In the toilets, a man hovers ready to pounce with soap, aftershaves and lolly-pops.  I choose the sink furthest from him but before I have turned on the tap he is standing next to me.  'No soap, no hope', he says.  I agree that hygiene is important and accept a squirt.  'No splash, no gash', he says turning on the tap.  I am not sure whether I have misheard him.  'Take a towel if you're on the prowl'.  I realise I haven't.  'No cologne, no one comes home'.  The man at the urinal starts laughing.  'No lolly, no jolly.  No Davidoff, no suck it off.'  There are others but, without a notebook, I knew I would not be able to remember them.  I halt his flow with my question.  He smiles revealing a filling like a thick paper clip on his front tooth.  He tells me the name is Nigerian.

I leave the bar before eleven o'clock.

Charlie

Standing in a corner nursing a tumbler of red wine and flicking through a stray copy of Esquire magazine, I am approached by a stranger.  She is tall with cropped hair and plastic earrings in the shape of small red bows.  'Are you working for the Off-West-End awards?' she asks.  I tell her I am not.  'I've asked everyone standing by themselves in the room', she says.  She has an Australian accent.  I ask what she is doing.  She tells me she is the preliminary scout for a theatre award but that usually there is another.  'It's a good way to see free theatre', she says.  She is also an actress and today auditioned for a play set on a bus.

She tells me she doesn't have a middle name.  Then, after a pause, 'Well, technically, I do have one...', she adds, 'if it helps'.  I say it does.  She tells me that a friend of hers had four so gave one to her.  'Charles', she says, 'but I use the shortening'.  Unsure as to how this consists a technicality, I ask if she has used it on any official documents.  'No', she replies, 'but I know I have it if I really need it'.  A moment.  'Actually this has probably been the most urgent use of it so far'.

The barman announces the one minute call.  We go back into the auditorium, shake hands and return to our respective seats for the second half.

Nickolayevich

I didn't ask the man wearing cap over a hair-net with a missing front tooth.  He recommended belly pork above roast beef at the deli counter of a supermarket but I let the opportunity slip.

I did ask two elderly ladies walking arm-in-arm around a London park.  One had shorter hair than the other and was taller.  Both wore large tortoise-shell sunglasses.  They did not speak English.  My enthusiastic physical demonstration of a middle name was to no avail.  Politely, they walked on.

Instead, finding myself engrossed in my book rather than the people around me, I decide to look up the author who is proving so fine a companion.  According to the internet, Chekhov said that 'while there is a Tolstoy in literature, it is pleasant and agreeable to be a writer; even when you know you have achieved nothing yourself and are still achieving nothing, this is not as terrible as it might otherwise be, because Tolstoy achieves for everyone.'  At the moment, I am inclined to agree.

(Russian middle names, such as Tolstoy's, are often 'patronymics', meaning that they are the father's first name followed by 'vich'.  If you are a girl then the name is still passed down but followed by 'evna'.  Thus my heroine's middle name is 'Arkadyevna' whereas her affably wayward brother's is 'Arkadyevich'.)

Amma

In the supermarket buying French beans and frozen peas, the check-out assistant is younger and fresher-faced than usual.  Her hair is frizzy with high-lights and tied back.  She smiles at my request but tells me she doesn't have one.  Her colleague, taller but similarly bright-eyed, gives me hers instead.  She tells me it is from Ghana.

Isobel

At my aunt's 80th birthday party I encounter a cousin whom I probably have not seen this millenium.  She has since lived in Moscow for ten years and had three children.  I am introduced to one (a three-year old and one of a set of twins) who is wearing a party dress, several colourful necklaces and chewing the ear of a toy rabbit that I learn is called 'Bunny'.  She is my first cousin once-removed.  Her mother tells me that her middle name was chosen 'just because we liked it'.

Aliese

Walking down the road towards London's busiest rail interchange, I am stopped by a lady with carefully coiffed dark hair and a pair of over-sized sunglasses.  A snakeskin-style handbag is slung over her shoulder and three suitcases stand by her side.  She asks me whether the entrance to the station is on the left down the road.  I tell her that it is and offer to carry one of her suitcases.  A middle-name seems like a fair exchange.

Lotty

In a pub I approach a table at which there are three girls and a pack of playing cards.  I explain my resolution and, without a moment's hesitation, one offers her hand and an answer.  She has a strong Californian drawl and I think, but find it unlikely, that she is saying 'Lardy'.  I have to ask her to repeat it three times before I understand.  I point at the cards and ask if she has been doing magic tricks.  She says no but that they have been using them to play drinking games all evening.  I leave them to it.

Elizabeth

In the cafe of not just any food and clothing high street store, I buy a coffee and a slice of carrot cake on a tray.  The lady who serves me has short hair and a branded baseball cap on which she rests a pair of glasses.  Her eyes are friendly and her teeth are characterful.

When I ask my question she leans back with a twinkle.  'Am I allowed to know yours?' I ask.  She tells me.  I find myself asking if she was named after the Queen.  'It's a family name', she replies, 'it was my mother's middle name, it's both my daughters' middle name, my grandmother's, my grand-daughter's'.  The list may have gone on, but I had paid and there were other things to attend to.

-, Jane, Jayne and Queenie

Sharing a table with a party of five in a pub near the river, the man and woman closest to me eye up my friend's halloumi and lentil salad.  We all agree that it looks tasty and I decide to make use of the rapport that we have established over Cypriot cheese and pulses.

The man is sitting next to me and is my first choice.  He shakes his head in disappointment.  He doesn't have one.  I ask why.  He tells me he didn't come out the way he should have.  His parents were expecting a girl and had a name fully prepared, including a middle.  When he emerged, to their surprise, both the parents and the name were caught short.

By the time he has told me his story, news of my project has spread round the group.  The woman on the other side of the table offers hers.  When I ask whether it is with or without a 'y' she says without but points at another member of the group who shares the name but not the spelling.  They want to know the purpose of my question and make me promise that they will be included.  A fourth member of the party notes that I haven't asked for hers.  I do.  Her companions are excited by her answer.

The fifth and final member's middle name remains unasked and ungiven.

Obafemi

Nearing home and in despair of finding a middle name.  It is cold and I scan the bus for potential strangers.  As if by fate, a large pink suitcase falls in to my lap.  Its owner, a tall man wearing a tweed coat and a grey army cap, apologies and picks it up.  A brown leather satchel hangs by his waist.  I seize the moment.  His brief confusion is followed by a smile as he spells out his name.  He tells me it is from Nigeria.  I comment on the size of his suitcase.  He agrees that it is big.  I ask where he is going.  'Home', he says.  'Where's that?'  I ask.  'Nigeria', he replies.  Perhaps I should have known.

He and the pink suitcase get out at the next stop.  We are not near an airport.

Phil

Walking past the car-park of a large supermarket, my attention is called by a man standing by his car.  He has perky dreadlocks, an angular face and a leather jacket.  In one hand is a cigarette, in the other a mobile phone held together with an elastic band.  We talk through railings.  He has had an altercation with the parking officer because he has no change, needs to go to the shop and doesn't want a ticket.  The parking officer has told him that he needs to find someone 'nice enough' to lend him forty pence.  I am that person.  He smiles and thanks me.  I ask my question.  'Whose middle name?' he asks.  'Yours', I explain.  He tells me and walks away. 

On the way to his car, he wheels round with his arms in the air.  'What's your first name?' he asks.  At my reply he gives me a look of approval, 'It's a good name', he says.  I say thank you.  'I'm an artist', he continues.  I ask what sort of artist.  'Well I'm an artist, sort of', he leans in, 'but I'm also an illustrator'.  I nod.  'I paint everything', he gestures towards the walls of the car-park.  'Everything you see around you', he looks up, 'I paint the sky ... the clouds ... the birds ... I paint everything in the cosmos ... the sea ... the stars ... the trees ... the grass ...', he mimes moving through water with his hands, '... the little fishes'.

He asks if I know anything about websites as that is the only thing standing between him and success.  I tell him I'm probably not the best person to help but walk away inspired.

Michael Gabriel

I am introduced to the playwright of a new play in which I will perform.  We shake hands and he puffs out his chest.  He tells me his name and I tell him mine.  I ask if he has got any others.  'I've got loads of names', he tells me proudly, shifting from one leg to the other.  When I ask why he shrugs his shoulders, 'I don't know'.  He smiles and puts his hands in his pockets. We discuss the characterisation of Bob Lit, the damaged traffic light.  He is ten years old.

Doleker

After a large American breakfast (titled 'The Lumberjack') in a greasy spoon, I go to pay up.  The proprietor, a bald Turkish man with a smile and gaps between his teeth, lunges from behind the counter with a lollypop.  'To make you sweeter', he says.  At first he claims not to have a middle name but when I turn my attention to the waitress he barges in.  'My third name is Cobra', he says, 'like the snake'.  He does a snakey movement with his hands.  I try to clarify.  'So do you have a name between your first and your third?' I ask.  I have unwrapped my lollypop.  'Aah', he says and writes it on a chit.  'It's Ottoman', he tells me, 'it means good, honest man'.  I ask him whether that is a fitting description.  'I don't know', he replies, 'fifty up, fifty down'.  He laughs and gives me and my friend each a loyalty card stamped twice.

Kim

Two hours after her scheduled arrival, a prospective tenant rings to say she is near the 'Bread of Life' bakery.  I tell her to wait there while I come and find her.  I do and, with concern, she tells me that the police have been helpful in guiding her to my address.

A large lady with her hair in a bun and a Morrison's bag in each hand walks past.  'Did you find it?' she asks the girl.  It seems that she has also engaged the help of civilians.  I decide to trespass further on the kindness of a stranger.  She is matter-of-fact and happy to oblige.  She is a mixture of German and Yugoslavian but her middle name, she tells us with a twang, is just plain old Australian.

The prospective tenant does not take the room.

Shadul

Stopped in the street by a man with a clipboard who wants to know about my pedestrian habits, I ask in return for his middle name.  He smiles.  He is from Bangladesh and his English is broken.  He has been working from six in the morning and tells me that he does not finish until eleven at night.  I say that sounds tough and wish him luck.