Travesi

At a railway station shop, the woman behind the counter is wiping down the surface.  I ask if she is still open.  I have been working since e-six thirty', she says in a Spanish accent.  'I'm sorry', I reply.  'Why are you e-sorry?' she says, ' Is not your fault'.  I pick out a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.  She has silver-rimmed rounded glasses and dark hair in a bun.  She is wearing a pair of yellow converse.  Round her neck hangs a key.  I ask what it is for.  'It opens a little wooden box', she tells me.  'What's inside?' I ask.  'Nothing e-special', she replies.

'Woa.  Woa.  Woa.  E-slowly', she says with her hands in the air as I try to ask my question.  She tells me that she doesn't have a middle name.  In Spain they have two surnames.  She writes one down on a till receipt.  'Is the most important', she says, 'my father's'.

Yussef

A lady in African garb is selecting pears from outside a twenty-four hour shop.  She has a gold turban and tunic decorated with flowers and small circles of glass.  On the end of her nose are gold-rimmed spectacles held to her head with a gold chain.  From her earlobes hang gold earrings in the shape of leaves. She eyes me with suspicion.

'Why do you want to know?' she asks.  I awkwardly explain my resolution.  She is unimpressed.  'I can't tell you my middle name.  I don't even know you'.  I tell her that it is not obligatory but that it would help me out.  She purses her lips.  I wait it out.  'Okay', she says and mumbles it.  I have to ask her to repeat herself.  'What's your name?' she asks.  'I'm Richard', I say and hold out my hand.  She shakes it.  'Nice to meet you, Richard', she says and turns back to the pears.

Renee

In a hot tube I feel a tap on my left shoulder.  'Excuse me but your bag is open', says a dark-haired girl in a green dress who is standing behind me.  Flustered, I apologise, tell her I always do this and fumble with my zip.

As we get off at the same stop I tap her in return.  On the platform I ask my question.  She looks pleased to be asked, puts her hand to her chest and gives me an answer.  Her friend is standing next to her.  She has cropped hair, a rucksack and a pink face.  I ask if they have been making the most of the sunshine.  'You can probably see that I have', replies the friend, smiling with her eyes apologetic.  They are from Canada and are having a gap year in the UK.  They spent today in the park.

I wish them a happy time and we continue our journeys on different tube lines.

David

'Have you got any ripe avocados?' I ask the man at the fruit and veg stall on the pavement.  He is short and his thinning grey hair is combed back.  He has small mole-like glasses and his eyes are close together.  He is wearing an over-sized white t-shirt and blue patterned Bermuda shorts.  On his feet are socks and trainers.

'No idea, mate', he says, 'I'm just looking after it.  He'll be back in five minutes'.  He nods his head.  I suggest that I could test them myself and find one that sufficiently gives way.  'Are you enjoying the weather?' he asks.  I reply that I very much am and ask the same in return.  'Of course', he replies.  I give him £1.20 and tell him about my resolution.  He gives me a middle name and my avocado in a brown paper bag.

(Ruth) and Matthew

Leaving an album launch in South London, I interrupt some goodbyes to ask the lady who had taken my money at the door.  She has a perpendicular fringe and her hair is cut into a straight line at her shoulder.  It sways as she answers, 'I don't have one'.  Disaster looms but a bald man with glasses (her husband) steps into the breech and gives me what I need. 'Do you want to know the reason for it?' he asks before thinking, 'Oh no, that's my first name'.

'I should have had a middle name', says the original object of my request.  She is eager to help and tells me the name that her mother had chosen; 'But my dad was drunk when he filled out the form and he forgot to write it down', she says.

George

The real middle name of the crooning pensioner who saw the United Kingdom to a second from bottom placement at this year's Eurovision Song Contest.

Claire Anne

On a bench in the crowded front yard of a bar in the arches underneath a station, I sit next to the fiancee of a friend of a friend.  She has wavy blonde hair and seems tall.  She works in television and we talk about the novel she is trying to write.

On leaving I ask my question.  Her groom-to-be reminds her of the second part.  It is the name she chose at her confirmation.  'After St Anne', she says, 'God, I'm so boring'.

(St Anne was the mother of Mary and thus grandmother of Jesus according to the Apocraphal New Testament.  She also lends her name to a beach resort and spa in the Seychelles which is, according to its website 'an island of dreams and sensual pleasures'.)

Breda

An unexpected package arrives in the hands of a Royal Mail postwoman.  She is wearing the uniform of a light blue shirt and navy skirt.  She has accessorised with brightly coloured trainers and diamante sunglasses.  Her hair is blondish and tied back with a fringe.  'You weren't expecting this?' she asks noting my excitement.  I sign the necessary slip and explain that normally they are for somebody else.

I tell her about my resolution.  'Do you have to guess it?' she asks from behind her sunglasses.  I tell her that guessing is not part of the rules.  'It's after my aunt', she says revealing the answer, 'Irish'.  I thank her for the parcel and she pushes her red trolley onwards.

Sally Ann(e)

In a small pub in East London, the landlady and her friend are chatty.  She has had a busy afternoon.  'I don't like customers', she says before engaging us in a lengthy conversation.

As we are heading outside I decide to ask my question.  'It's not going to be as easy as that', she says shaking her head with folded arms, 'You're going to have to guess'.  She tells us there are two but refuses to give any initials.  My friend starts with Sarah.  Her second guess is correct.  I try May as my first choice and then land on the correct name as my second. 

'Really?' I ask, taken aback by our perception.  'Swear on my life' she says holding up a cross around her neck.  I ask whether the second name is spelt with or without an 'e'.  She thinks.  'I don't know', she says, 'Isn't that awful?'  Then she adds, as an afterthought, 'I have had three sambuccas'.

Hussein

The sun begins to set and a bell signals an end to the first summer's evening in the park.  A truck carrying black bin bags is circuiting the grass.  Outside is written the slogan, 'Improving Lambeth's Parks'; inside is a man with a brass bell in one hand and a mobile phone in the other.  He stops intermittently and rings the bell out of his window.  I interrupt his phone call to ask my question.

'A mi'ul?' he asks.  He has a thin face and a small mouth.  His teeth are uneven and rabbit-like.  He wears a florescent gilet.  'Yeh, I've got a mi'ul', he says.  He concentrates for a moment then says something I don't understand.  I have to ask him to spell it for me.

'Thank you very much', I say.  'Have a good day', he says going back to his phone call and his bell-ringing round.

Marie

A plastic tube in the shape of a light-saber falls from under a young woman's arm.  In the other is a toddler with ringlets of blonde hair.  She has dark hair tied sensibly and red thick-rimmed glasses.  She stops the object from rolling away with her foot.  It is filled with green liquid.  'What's it for?' I ask, bending down to pick it up.  'It blows enormous bubbles', she tells me.

I ask my question and wish her happy bubble-blowing.  'Thank you', she says.

Edwina

'Do you want haddock or cod?' asks the lady in the Fish and Chips shop.  She is wearing a white sleeveless top and her dark hair is tied up with a clip.  She has pearl earrings and her teeth are charaterful.  She laughs at my indecision and decides for me.

'I'm trying to remember', she says slowly in response to my question, 'Yes, yes I do have one'.  She smiles.  'Are you going to remember that now?' she says.  I assure her that I will as I cover my haddock with salt and vinegar.

(I wish I could introduce yesterday's middle name to today's.  Perhaps Edwin would feel better knowing he had a female equivalent.)

Edwin

'No, I just wear a tie for no reason', says the bald man with the striped shirt when I ask whether he works at the pub.  A lady was trying to get in the door and had mistaken me for a member of staff.  I explain the situation.  He has a Cavalier-style moustache and goatee and is wearing shiny cuff-links.  He has a square blue stone in his left ear and a stud in his tongue.  Silver teeth gleam from the back of his mouth.  His manner is gruff.

Later, at the bar, I ask my question.  'There's no fucking way you're getting mine', he says.  I call after him to ask why not.  'It's embarrassing', he says, 'What's yours?'  I tell him.  'You've got a surname as a middle name?' he says.  'I suppose so', I reply.  With a mumble he reveals his own.  'What's embarrassing about that?' I ask.  'You don't get many of them about these days', he replies.

Louise and Darren

Young and wearing bright blue matching polo-shirts, the two receptionists are laughing at the counter as I leave the swimming pool.  She wears a layer of heavy foundation and mascara.  He has dark hair and a strong jawline.

'Cool', she says when I make my request.  She holds her hand to the logo on her polo-shirt as she tells me hers and then gestures towards her colleague who tells me his.  They smile. 

They both have very white teeth.

Valentina

Having supper with friends and without a middle name, I ask if anyone has a friend unknown to me who we could ring.  Someone obliges and connects me to a recently married colleague.  She is a Biology teacher.

'It's a bit unusual and embarrassing', she says on the other end of the phone.  'I was born on Valentine's day so my parent's decided that I should be named after the Saint'.  I say that seemed an excellent idea and that I liked the sound of her parents.  'Do you like your parents?' I add as an after-thought.  'Yes', she replies, 'I like them very much'.

Magdalene

Inspired by a musical based on a book about books by my favourite children's author, I come home to find that he has no known middle name.  Instead, today's is his Norwegian mother's whom he described as having 'a crystal-clear intellect and a deep interest in almost everything under the sun'.

She became a single mum when her one-armed husband (he lost it after he fell off a roof and a drunk local doctor mistook a fractured elbow for a dislocated shoulder at the age of fourteen) died of pneumonia on a fishing trip to the Atlantic.  Her only son, the author, was three.   She remained in Wales where they had moved to give their children an English education and brought up her four off-spring and two step-children alone.  'She was a great teller of tales', he said of her.

When she died he found that she had saved every one of the letters he had sent her from boarding school in bundles held together with green tape.

Somabhai

On the way and home buying milk and a banana at my local newsagents, the metal grates begin to close behind me.  'You can take your time', says the man in the grey cardigan behind the counter.  He is largely bald with grey hair neatly cut round the edges.  His forehead has the smudged remains of some red powder (wikipedia tells me it is the Hindu symbol of a third eye called a  tilaka).  I ask my question.

'Oh blimey', he replies with a smile.  He tells me his middle name would be his father's name from India.  I ask him how long he has had the shop.  'Thirty years', he says with resignation.

Emma

Hurtling towards me on the pavement is a young lady with long blonde hair.  She is wearing a grey hoodie over a sky-blue t-shirt and is on a skateboard.  'Excuse me', an impulse makes me say as she passes me.  The interruption causes her to trip and she stumbles off the board.  'I'm very sorry', I say.  'It's okay', she replies.  A strand of her hair, damp with sweat, sticks to her forehead.  Sheepishly, I explain the reasoning behind my disturbance.  'It's Emma', she says.  I express gratitude and ask where she is from.  'Sweden', she replies as she remounts her vehicle and skates away.

Michela

'We're going to a four year-old's Olympic party', says a young girl apropos of nothing in the red-carpeted hallway of an expensive block of flats.  'That's exciting', I say.  She has long dark hair and what looks like only one tooth protruding from her mouth at an angle.  A smaller boy is standing with her wearing an Avengers Assemble T-shirt.  'He's two years younger than me and one year older than him', she points at the boy.  She has an American accent.  'Is he your brother?' I ask.  'Yes', she says, 'I'm six and he's three'.  The brother clarifies, 'I'm three years old', he says.  'And your sister is six', I say to show I have been listening.  'Yes, but she used to be five', he tells me.  'The boy whose party it is is four', the girl says.  I ask what her middle name is.  She tells me.

'Have a good time at your Olympic party', I say.  'We will', she replies.

Annette

In a bookshop, I have to be prompted to enter my PIN.  'I'm sorry, I was half-asleep', I say, waking from my daydream.  'That's perfectly acceptable, it's a Saturday afternoon', replies the shop assistant.  She has a dark fringe and her hair is tied in a bun.  Her grey cardigan is held together by a porcelain clasp with a painted lady in 1920s garb.  She is wearing green eyeshadow.

Appreciating her good humour, I ask my question.  'It's after my mum's mother', she says.  'Your granny?' I ask, checking my genealogy.  'She died before I was born', she says, 'so I didn't call her granny.  But that was her name'.

John

The barman is portly with a moustache waxed into points.  'It's very hoppy', he says of my choice of ale.  'There's quite a strong metallic taste to it'.  He gives me a small glass to try.  'I recommend it in a ginger beer shandy', he says, 'takes the edge off'.  I accept his suggestion and ask for his middle name.  He gives it to me.  I thank him.

My next pint is Guinness.

Peter

An evening of poetry reading in South-West London.  The organiser is a squat man of certain years.  He is wearing a jacket, waistcoat and tie.  On his head is a black beanie decorated with three badges.  Dishevelled hair emerges from the sides and back.  His beard is long and grey and his footwear is an incongruous pair of black moon-boots.  His own poems are inspired by the Japanese tradition.  He is steadily loquatious.

At the end of the evening I approach the table where he is drinking a pint to ask his middle name.  'Ah, that's an interesting story', he says.  I am not wholly surprised.  He tells me that the people in his life divide into three categories: the majority who know him by the name by which he introduced himself ('A nom-de-plume?' I ask.  'Sort of', he replies), his family who know him by his given name and the minority who know him by both.  His middle name comes from the name that is used only by his family.  'If I tell you, you'll have to be sworn to absolute secrecy', he says.  I nod seriously.  'Not really', he adds.

Claire

At the theatre, the colleague of a friend responds to my request with unexpected enthusiasm.  'Do you want to know the story behind it?' she asks.  'Why not?' I reply.  She tells me that it is both her mother's name and her paternal grandmother's.  'So it'll have to be my daughter's', she says.

Buenano

Late and walking down the dark street in search of a middle name, I am nodded at by a stocky man with thinning hair, a padded jacket and red jeans.  I am desperate and decide to take the opportunity.  He seems eager to talk.  He is from Equador and has lived here for fourteen years.  I tell him that I did Spanish for A-level and he asks, 'Tienes una novia?'.  I begin to make a move. 

'So when are we going to go for a beer?' he says.  I mumble something about working in the evenings.  'So when will I see you again, Richard?' he asks.  I say that I'm sure that we will see each other around.  'But I don't know when you normally walk down this street', he continues.  I tell him that I am late to meet some friends and have to run.  'How will I know when you're here?' he says.  I say something involving the word 'serendipity', shake his hand and walk away at a brisk pace.

I do a circuit to return to my flat the back way.

Fabian

A long day and little time for human interaction, I remember, with relief, a text message service to which you can ask any question.  I text, 'What is your middle name?' to 118118.  I look forward to the response.  Two minutes later I receive the reply, 'We're very sorry, but every day we get a few questions we can't answer.  This is one of them.  No charge'.

Instead my German flatmate offers up any member of his family.  I chose his brother who made up his middle name because he thought it sounded cool.  'He is very self-aware', says my flatmate. 'No, perhaps that is the wrong translation'.  A pause.  'He is very self-centred my brother, yes, self-centred'.

Alex

A large black man mutters something that I don't understand as I open the door of my block while my friend wheels out her bicycle.  He is wearing an old baseball cap with the letters 'KA' (the name of a popular Caribbean fruit punch drink) and an over-sized shirt.  He has a greying beard and a pair of beige-rimmed glasses that sit on his nose at an angle.  I look confused.  He laughs from his belly.  'He doesn't get the drift', he says pointing at me and doubling over.  His laugh is infectious.  He says some more things that I find difficult to grasp.  I am evidently missing the joke.  He waves me away and we begin to walk in opposite directions until I decide to trun back and ask my question.

'I don't use it', he says, standing upright.  'But does it exist?' I ask, mirroring his posture.  'Yes', he says with suspicion.  I don't give up.  'Can you tell me it?'  He squints.  'It begins with 'A'', he says.  I begin guessing.  'Anthony?'  I suggest.  He shakes his head.  'Adrian?'  My friend pipes up, 'Adam?'  We don't seem to be close.  I ask for another letter.  He gives me 'L'.  'Allington?' I try, perhaps thinking of middle names past.  'Alfred?' my friend suggests more plausibly.  He gives us a clue.  'He's a famous saint - he did stuff in countries'.  I ask for another letter.  I get 'E'.  'Alessandro', I try (I'm not sure why).  My friend finally hits the jackpot.  He laughs and grabs my hand.  'My first name's St David', he says.

Using me as leverage he aims towards my friend.  He asks for her middle name and tells her it's a beautiful name.  He then asks my name.  'Richard', I tell him.  He throws his head back.  'That's a dodgy one', he laughs.  Tears are rolling down his cheeks.  'What's your middle name?'  I tell him.  'Fuck off!' he roars.  We begin our jovial goodbyes.  'You've got a great butt', he tells my friend through chortles as we walk away.

Jason

In a corner shop buying  bottle of wine, I ask the man behind the counter who wears a beige beanie with a dark fringe poking out at the front.  He has difficulty understanding my question.  I try to rephrase it as a man with a baggy grey tracksuit and a restless manner comes in to make a purchase.  'My name's Jason', he says handing over the money.  'Is that your middle name?' I confirm.  'Yeh', he says.  He turns his back and waves an arm in the air.  'Write it down'. 

Dryden

Paying the bill in a Thai restaurant, I lean over to ask the two grey-haired gentlemen sitting at the adjacent table with their younger international female companions.  One's locks are curly, the other's floppy.  They eye me with machismic suspicion.  'He's got an interesting one', says the curly-haired gentleman, deflecting the question.  The floppy-haired gentleman stands up and puts on his tweed jacket.  'You look like a studious chap', he says, 'Think of a poet'.  I take the challenge.  'Chaucer?' I suggest.  He shakes his head.  I try to think through the cannon.  'Byron?  Shelley?  Dylan Thomas?'  'You're getting closer', he says, 'he liked a bar wrestle'.  'Marlowe?'  I try in desperation.  'Dryden', he tells me, 'A relation.  He's in the family tree'.  I look suitably impressed.  'My son has it too'.  I ask to be reminded of one of his most famous poems.  'No idea', comes the reply.

The gentleman accompany their lady friends to the door.

(I got out my edition of John Dryden from university.  It is not very well-thumbed.  My highlighter seems to have paid most attention to An Essay of Dramatic Poesy.  Perhaps one day I will read his lesser known comedy, The Assignation, or Love in  Nunnery.) 

Robert and de Pfeffel

The two middle names battling it out to be mayor of London.  One was born in his grandmother's house in Lambeth, the other is a descendant of King George II.

Adrian

Leaving a pub in central London, I approach the barman who told us we had ten minutes to drink up eight minutes ago.  He has a black apron with badges, curly dark hair and a light sprinkling of stubble on his chin and upper lip.  I ask my question.  He stares straight back at me.  'I'm sorry', I say, 'You look as though I've made you angry'.  'No', he replies, 'I'm just... umm...', he pauses, 'shocked'.  I mumble something about it being a bit strange.  'It's Adrian', he tells me and puts a chair on the table.  'Thank you', I say.  He nods.

Ken

Opening my front door in my jogging attire, I notice a small Chinese lady hovering next to me.  'I live here', she says.  She has a neatly cropped boyish haircut in grey and is carrying two plastic bags from the Chinese supermarket.  'It's very stiff', she says gesturing to the lock.  I agree.  I ask how long she has lived here.  She tells me that she has been here for about a month.  I ask if she likes it.  'Not particularly', she replies.  Her Chinese accent is strong.

When I ask her name she tells me that her husband's name is 'Chen'.  On second asking she gives me hers.  'And your middle name?' I ask.  She gives me an answer without questioning my motive.  We agree that it has been nice to meet each other and I leave her at the bottom of the stairs.