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Making my way home in the dark a tall youth with a padded jacket and his female companion are walking towards me.  She is shorter and rounder with auburn hair swiped over her forehead.  I stop them to ask my question.  The boy is motionless.  'Yeh?', he says, 'Yeh?'.  'So do you think you could tell me yours?' I ask.  He leaps two steps back and shakes his hands in the air,  'Naaah!' he says with wide eyes, 'Why do you wanna know 'dat?'  I must look towards the girl because she gives me hers with an air of quiet resignation.

As I make to leave, I notice some white letters on his black T-shirt.  I ask him what it says.  He shows me.  It reads 'DAAAAMN FAAAM!!'  I ask him what it means.  'DAAAAMN means like Daaaamn!' he says gesturing with his arms.  I ask what FAAM means.  He shakes his head.  'Don't worry about it, man, innit', he says and they move on laughing.

Elaine

At the check-in for the flight home I ask, too late, if it's possible to have a seat on the aisle.  The girl behind the desk has long hair (strawberry-blonde) with a fringe and small pink studs in her ears.  She checks our boarding passes.  'If your name's Richard, you're in luck', she says.  My reaction is, perhaps, more than the situation calls for.  She smiles and says she is pleased that it has worked out so well.  I ask my question.  She gives me an answer.  We all leave happy.

Wilfred

An alternative tour of Belfast with a record shop owner and local musical legend.  He has grey hair, a glass eye and a wealth of anecdotes.  Sometimes he is difficult to understand.  People stop to say hello.  At the end of the tour he finds a pub that is willing to show us the trailer of the new feature film that is based on his life.  The emotion makes him well-up.

On the way out, I thank him and ask my question.  'Named after my uncle who ran in the snow the day I was born', he tells me.  Or at least that's what it sounds like.  I decide not to ask him to elaborate.

Pearl

On a plane to Belfast, the middle-aged lady sitting next to me wants to talk.  She has cropped dark hair and a strong Northern Irish accent.  I hear about her recent trip to Reykyavik, the importance of good friends and the girl who broke her eldest son's heart.  'I liked her right enough like', she says, 'but it was me who had to pick up the pieces'.

As we arrive, I tell her about my project.  'Oh dear', she says, 'mine's rather old-fashioned'.  She was named after her aunt.  'I bet you haven't had that one before'.  I tell her I haven't.  'Precious as a pearl', she says with a hint of sarcasm before wishing me a happy weekend.

Drury

Watching some international theatre above a pub, I meet the uncle of one of the performers.  He has white hair combed back and a goatee (again white but speckled with grey).  He and his family live on Hayling Island and had come up to London for the evening. 

'I've lumbered my son with it too', he says about his middle name.

Mary (III)

Seeking shelter from the relentless rain in a small art gallery in Cambridge.  'It's horrid out there', says the lady behind the counter.  'Yes.  It's grim', I reply.  She has light-coloured hair in a thick fringe and a friendly demeanour.  I decide to make double use of the respite from the weather.  'Do you have to guess it?' she asks with a gentle twinkle.  I tell her that it is not obligatory but I could try.  She gives me the first letter.  'Margaret?'  I suggest.  She shakes her head.  'Matilda?'  I try.  No luck.  My friend comes up with the correct answer.  'Although I think I rather prefer Matilda', she says.

Romero

Walking down the pavement with my head in a book, a man kisses his painted fingernails as I pass.  'You look very elegant', he says in what sounds like a Spanish accent, and he mimics my concentrated expression.  On his head, a cloche hat made of felt sits at a jaunty angle.  He is wearing a mustard shirt with matching tie and waistcoat.  His face is tanned with a layer of foundation, eye-make-up and lipstick (slightly smudged).  He is seated at a table outside a pub with a pint of beer and two roses on the bench next to him.  He is probably about sixty.

I decide to ask my question.  He looks suspicious.  'What's your name?' he asks.  I tell him.  'Sit down, Richard', he says, gesturing to the seat opposite him.  I do.  'We must speak quietly', he says, leaning in.  A younger man approaches to ask us directions to a different pub.  'Excuse me', he says.  'You're excused', says my painted gentleman, 'Go away'.  He looks back to me, 'You've got to laugh, Richard', he says.  I agree. 

He tells me that he is a 'theatre and film-maker extra-ordinaire'.  He taps my arm.  I say I will Google him when I get home.  He looks confused.  I explain that I will look him up on the internet.  'Do, Richard, do', he says enthusiastically.  I repeat my question.  He pauses for effect and taps his nose.  'What do you pay?'  I tell him that it is not usually a monetary exchange.  'A phone number?' he suggests.  I say that I think a phone number is perhaps too high currency for a middle name.  He leans closer to me and whispers an answer.  'It means rosemary', he says.

I thank him and explain that I am late for a teaching appointment and need to be on my way.  'I'm a professor but I don't like teaching', he says.  I collect my bag and stand up to leave.  'You look lovely', he says.  'Thank you', I reply.  He waves as I continue down the pavement.

(At home, I make good on my promise to Google him and, whilst his extra-ordinary talents are not splattered all over the internet, he did direct a film of 'Hamlet' in 1976 with Helen Mirren as Ophelia and Gertrude and Quentin Crisp as Polonius.  The nunnery scene is particularly fine.)

Bernd

My new flatmate from Germany.  His profile claimed that he likes to 'travel the world looking for good times'.  These good times have included 'dancing in cornfields to deep house, eating delicious cookies, cooking delicious pasta et al'.  I don't know whether drinking a bottle of Becks whilst watching me eat my supper will make it onto his list.

Constance

An exaggerated wave at the Tate Modern causes a stir.  Directed to attract the attention of a friend, two girls hovering over the donations box think it is for them.  I apologise for the misunderstanding but make use of the opportunity.  One of the girls, with blonde hair, raises both her hands with enthusiasm to answer my question.  'Thank you', I say.  And add, by accident, 'Are you constant?'.  'It's my granny's name so don't make fun of it', she warns.  I tell her I won't and turn to greet the original object of my gesticulation.

Azula

Late for a party on a barge and out-of-breath, the skipper agrees to pick me up from the towpath.  She is dressed for the job in a green fleece and boardshorts.  She has dreadlocks which emerge from under a Rastafarian knitted hat. There are wide gaps between her teeth and scabs on her bare legs.  She speaks with an authoritative rasp.

I catch my breath and join the party.  As we wait for the water level to rise at the lock I return to thank her for letting me board and ask her middle name.  'I don't have one', she says and then adds, 'I used to have a pretend one if that's any help'.  I tell her it is.  'I chose it so I could always win at Red Letter', she tells me and explains that it is a game where you take one step forward if a certain letter is in your name; 'z', being rare, was a significant advantage.

'Where did you get it from?' I ask.  'No idea', she replies, 'I completely made it up'.  She cackles.  The lock opens and I realise I am distracting her from steering so retreat to the other end of the boat.

Macarena

Waiting at the self-service tills of a small supermarket, I ask a woman who is waiting for her companion to scan his items.  She has a piercing through her lip, baggy white trousers and boots with three buckles on each side.  Her left eye is discoloured.  She doesn't understand my question.  She is Spanish.  A woman at another till eavesdrops as I repeat myself more slowly.

When she tells me, her companion interrupts to tell her that she is wrong.  He is wearing maroon corduroy trousers, a knitted cardigan and a patterned beanie.  They have a discussion about what constitutes a middle name in Spain.  She has two first names and two surnames.  She thinks it should be the first, he thinks the second.  I decide to take her word and check the spelling.  'It's like the song', she says and demonstrates by singing the introduction.  She does a dance with her arms.  'Thank you', I say and her companion leads her out.

Curran

Feeling too wet and cold to venture out in search of strangers, today's middle name comes from a man who didn't let a temperature of 103 and a bit of rain stop him from swinging round a lamp-post and tap-dancing in puddles.

Anthony (III)

I ask a bouncer as he tears my ticket.  He pronounces the 'th' as a voiceless dental fricative (as in 'thing') as opposed to a voiced dental fricative (as in 'this') or, as is more common, a plain 't'.  Despite his clarity I check that it is spelt with an 'h'.  He assures me that it is but the person behind me has a printed e-ticket and takes his attention.

Lucretia

In the pub the girl sat behind me has half a metre of Kinder Easter chocolate on her table and a roll-up cigarette behind her ear.  She is wearing high-waisted shiny black leggings and a cropped red top.  I lean back and ask my question.  'It sounds like a bit of a shit name', she says.  When she tells me I spell it back to her.  'You're the first person who's ever known how to spell it', she says.  I ask why she thinks it sounds shit.  'It's supposed to be Russian', she says, 'but it sounds Jamaican'.  She shrugs and her friends return from the bar to join her.

Mary (II)

Welsh rarebit was off the menu because she didn't know how to use the grill.  Instead my friend and I had home-made lasagne and faggots with mashed potato.  We saw her cross the road to buy a packet of frozen peas from the local Spar.

After eating, I asked my question.  She was wearing a red blouse with a black cardigan and thin red glasses.  She looked pleased to be asked.  'It's after my grandmother, Lily Mary', she told me.  'My first name is Glynis because my father's name is Glynn'.  She told me about her family, the town that she had lived in for thirty-six years and the recent move to this village.  'There's not much for the young here', she said, 'they tend to move away'.

Lee, Stanley and David

Three white boys and a black girl sit on a bench outside WHSmith on the high street of a small Welsh town.  One of the boys wears a knitted hat with plaits hanging from either side.  Another has piercings through his eyebrows and large 'flesh tunnels' in his earlobes (see Friday 13th January).  The girl has hair swept over her face and multi-coloured leggings.  The remaining boy has fluffy stubble growing from his upper lip and chin.  They could fairly be described as 'youths'.

I walk past and then return to ask if any of them would offer up their middle names.  Fluffy Stubble puts up his hand followed by Flesh Tunnel and Knitted Hat.  Multi-coloured Leggings remains slouched with her arms crossed and legs stretched out in front of her.  I ask them in order of enthusiasm.  The three boys are happy to oblige.  Multi-coloured Leggings says she doesn't have one.  'You've left it a bit late for a resolution', says Fluffy Stubble.  I explain that I have found a different one each day.  'Woah, that's cool', he says.  Flesh Tunnel and Knitted Hat appear similarly impressed by my mission.  They nod approvingly.  Multi-coloured Leggings raises her eye-brows.

I refrain from asking if I could join their crew but leave buoyed by their big-ups.

Robert

I eat an excellent slice of Victoria sponge in a small cafe.  The proprietor is around forty and has a Mediterranean accent.  He wears a grey v-neck jumper.  I ask my question on the way out.  He looks confused and then smiles.  Some of the teeth at the back of his mouth are silver.  He tells me and I thank him for the cake.

Marcel

At a leaving do, I ask the cheerful-looking ex-colleague of a friend outright.  She doesn't have one but offers me her mum or dad's.  I choose her dad's and ask whether he is any good at mime.  'I don't think so', she says, 'but I've got a vision of him dancing down the length of our living room'.  She goes on to describe how her father used to dance up and down to classical music, attempting the splits in mid-air.  'He used to wear an old tracksuit', she tells me.  She is eating a Scotch egg.  I ask if he'll do it for her next time she visits.  'Not unless he wants to end up in hospital', she replies.

Patricia (II)

Back in London, a woman sits at the next table to me in McDonald's.  She has dreadlocks, a long yellow padded coat and an orange face.  She eats two McFlurries in quick succession during the time it takes me to check my e-mail.  'Sorry darlin', don't have one', she says to my request.  Nor does the girl shutting the gate to her block of flats in East London.

In desperation I accost a girl crossing the road wearing a string poncho.  It is dark.  To my relief she greets the approach with amusement.  It may help that I have a large rucksack on my back and am still wearing shorts.  'Wow, you're leaving it pretty late.  It's nearly midnight', she says.  'I know', I reply signaling the urgency of my situation.  'I suppose I'd better give you mine then', she offers.  I thank her profusely and comment on the fact that it is the same as yesterday's.  'Coincidence', she says.  I agree.  'Good luck with your resolution', she says as we continue our separate journeys home.

Patricia

An over-booked flight leads to me spending the night at a beach resort hotel.  During the day, I make several visits to the front desk to ask about pick-up times, charging my laptop and free meal vouchers.  The lady behind the counter is eager to help.  Her hair is in thick plaits woven tightly to her scalp.  They meet at the back in a shell shape.  The roots are speckled with grey.  She wears bronze-rimmed spectacles and gold hoop earrings.  The younger members of staff are wearing bright pink and purple.  She wears the same uniform but in a sandy brown.  A name badge gives her name, 'SUE'.

Whilst on the phone to Virgin Atlantic, she asks whether I have enjoyed my holiday.  I tell her that I have been here for work.  'You must be a very good teacher that they fly you out here', she says.  I say that I am not so sure.  'I wish I was an academic so I could go and teach in Mustique'.

Later she phones my room to tell me that my taxi is shortly to arrive.  I use the opportunity to ask my question.  'Sue is a pet name', she tells me and then goes on to give me the information I need.

I say goodbye to her at the front desk as I leave.  She puts out her hand and I shake it.  'It's been good to meet you, Mr Crawley'.  'Likewise', I say and promise to come back to the resort if I should ever find myself on the island again.

Jennifer

In transit on the way home, I show my passport to an official-looking woman.  She wears a beige waistcoat over a white shirt and her hair is carefully gelled to one side.  On her shoulders are brown epaulettes with a yellow stripe.  She has large gold earrings.

We exchange pleasantries about my stay as the business is transacted.  She gives me back my passport and I begin to explain my request.  'New Year's Resolution?' she interrupts, 'You're a bit late with 'dat'.  I tell her that I need to find a new middle name every day.  'You want to know my middle name?'  Her eyes light up and she tells me with pride.  When I ask if there is any reason for it she seems taken aback by the question.  'My mum has passed away so I can't even ask her', she says, 'and my dad don't care what name he called me'.

I wish her a good day and she wishes me a safe flight.

Michael (V)

I order 'catch-of-the-day' at a beach-side restaurant.  I am wearing a white cowboy hat to protect my head from the sun.  It has rhinestone encrusted on the front and does not belong to me.  The young waiter seems amused by my attire.  He is wearing a turquoise polo shirt and white chinos.  His head is shaved and he has no need of protective headgear.  He appears constantly on the point of collapsing into laughter.

When he brings the bill, I ask my question.  'My mother named me after all of the angels', he tells me by way of explanation (his first name is that of another).  I ask if he has lived up to it.  'Yeh', he replies, nodding.

(In the apocryphal book of Adam and Eve the Angel Michael looks after the disgraced pair when they are cast out of the Garden of Eden.  He teaches Adam to farm and even persuades God to let Adam's soul ascend to heaven at his death.  He is, apparently, also responsible for saving Daniel from the lion's den, the plague on Egypt that eventually led the Israelites to freedom and spurring on a young Joan of Arc.  An impressive list of achievements for my waiter to pit his own against.)

Michael (IV)

On a floodlit tennis court, I find myself playing a balmy game of doubles.  My partner is the coach.  He is short with skin that is brown and leathery from the sun.  Oily black ringlets emerge from under his white baseball cap.  In his left ear is a silver ring.  He is about forty and shares my first name.  Occasionally he gives me a bit of advice about holding the racket or tossing the ball.  More often he says, 'Good shot Richard, give me a tap'.  His accent is American.

Across the court, the subject of middle names comes up without my prompting.  A member of the other team asks the question.  I ask him if there is a reason for it.  'My mother thought it sounded professional', he replies.

An hour later our opponents, whose combined age is significantly less than his and marginally less than mine, win in a tense tie-break.  My team-mate winks at me.  'Well drawn out', he says.  I nod, unwilling to admit I didn't know that is what we were doing.

Edmond

Sitting at the children's end of the table at a beach barbeque, the tanned girl opposite me wears a pink sundress and purple Ray Banns.  Her hair is streaked blonde from the sun and her expression is coy.  She is about seven years old.  I manage to extract her two middle names but the combination of heat and a glass of white wine make the second of the two slip from my mind (the first was Michelle).

A lively eleven year-old spends the lunch as raconteur.  At one point he has the table in fits over a story of his younger brother filming his dad in the shower.  He later took the footage into school as part of their 'show and tell'.  Earlier he had told me about the plastic surgeon who the young girl's dad is considering using for a hair transplant.  The dad was at the other end of the table wearing a hat.  The boy, who had removed his hat to eat and had a fine head of hair, gave me a graphic description of the procedure.

He told me that the plastic surgeon's name was Dr James E. Vogel and that he had been voted the best in Baltimore.  I confirmed this on return to my computer.  His website also claims that he has 'integrity, a professional manner and outstanding experience'.  A bit of extra research reveals the name behind the 'E'.

The young boy told me that his dad thinks that the young girl's dad should just shave it off.

Allington

For breakfast I am brought a plate of cut fruit and some freshly baked hot cross buns.  It is served by a portly black gentleman.  He wears a beige branded polo-shirt and long trousers.  I have just been swimming and stand, dripping on the veranda.  I try to lean with nonchalance against a sliding door.  It gives way and I stumble.  He kindly does not notice and, after a moment of suspicion, answers my question.  He tells me he thinks it might be after his grandfather whom he never met because he died very young.  He was also born on the larger neighbouring island but has worked for my employer for twenty-seven years.

(Googling the name, I could only find reference to a small village situated alongside the A20 road west of Maidstone in Kent.  Whether or not this is connected, I can only speculate.)

Mary Elizabeth

Between working hours I have time to read a short Booker prize-winning novel.  It contains the sentence; 'My girlfriend was called Veronica Mary Elizabeth Ford, information (by which I mean her middle names) it took me two months to extract'.

I pat myself on the back for extracting so many within a day.

Molissa

Being served a three-course supper in my bedroom, I tell the lady who delivers and collects my trays that there is no need to knock.  She is wearing a crisp white short-sleeved shirt and a black skirt.  Her hair is cropped to her head and her earrings are silver disks.  She is large and our exchanges are very polite.

As she brings my pudding, I pluck up the courage to ask my question.  It takes a while to explain but she is patient.  She taps my leg when she understands 'New Year's Resolution'.

'I have no idea', she says when I ask if there is a reason for it, 'I have never thought to question it'.  She tells me her mother picked her first name from a book.  She was born on a neighbouring island.

She smiles and says, 'Enjoy your dessert', warning me that it is hot.  I thank her and tuck into my chocolate pot.

'Bing Bong'

On a long-haul flight, I am sitting next to a mother and her son.  We exchange pleasantries and awkward shufflings for toilet trips during the journey.  The mother twice offers me soft-mints which I accept.  As we approach our destination, the son gets excited.  He has blonde hair, blue eyes and an enthusiastic smile.  He is wearing a t-shirt with guitars on it.  He is eight years old.  'Are you going to get married again?' he asks his mother as that is what she did last time she was in the Caribbean.  She laughs and says that once was enough.  Getting off the plane, I tell the boy about my resolution.  He beckons me down to his height and whispers in my ear.  I tap my nose and promise not to tell anyone.  So I won't.

Instead today's middle name is that of the poet, comic and philosopher that I met whilst in transit at the airport.  He was selling his wares at the entrance of a newsagent.   His books seemed expensive but he persuaded me to part with a two-pound coin for a copy of his leaflet entitled 'Life and Laughter'.  His encouraging philosophy is that 'Small things can influence lives.  Help to shape lives for the betterment of self and country'.  The leaflet is keen to make it clear that 'These jokes are original.  They were especially prepared for tourist visiting our warm and friendly shores'.  This is my favourite:

'FINISHED
My brother met a beautiful young lady and fell deeply in love with her.  They were dating for three years when one day she surprisingly said to him that she was finish.  The boy stopped eating, started drinking and long tears fell from his eyes.  He cried and cried.  He only understood what she meant when she told him that she was from Finland.
N.B.  People from Finland are called Finnish.'

His full name was written on the leaflet and, to him, I made no promises of secrecy.

Micheal (III)

My new flatmate moved in a week ago so no longer counts as someone I don't know.  Instead, over some left-over pizza, I ask him about his family.

His Mum and his Dad are both New York born and bred and neither have ever left the United States.  He describes his Dad (and the subject of today's blog) as a 'typical blue collar worker'.  He got married very young and worked for the New York transit department for most of his working life until he retired early in his fifties.  Now he spends most of his time looking after his new grandson which, says my flatmate, 'he complains about but it keeps him busy'.  His mother still works as a teaching assistant. 

They live on Staten Island and, whilst they would like to communicate with their son everyday during his visit to London, he finds it difficult because they are not good at using Skype.

Haroon Ali and Anthony Radcliffe

A couple sitting by the window in a pub.  She is made up and drinking white wine.  He has a corduroy jacket, dark hair and expressive gestures.  She tells me that her initials spell SHAM.  I commiserate.  But, she goes on, it is not as bad as her grandfather's which, as a committed Muslim, spelled HAM. 

With him I discuss the diminutive star of the Harry Potter franchise.

I tell them it is my birthday.  They wish me a happy one and I return to my friends.