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.
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