Marc

The side-burned cyclist who banged a bell at the opening ceremony and today won a gold medal for Team GB.  Hurray.

James

In despair and faced with a wall of crumbling plaster I am given the number of a 'man who can'. He offers to pop round and have a look.  He uses the phrase 'lovely jubbly'.  I am comforted.

He rings on the door bell and comes to inspect the mess.  He is tall and thin.  He has white paint on his t-shirt.  'Easy job', he says.  I express my concerns about the benefits of patching it up versus tearing more down and starting again.  'Well you can if you want, Richard', he says, 'but I guarantee you it's going to be just fine'.  He taps the wall.  'Really?', I ask.  'A hundred percent - pay me in ten years if you want'.  I am half-convinced. 

He agrees to do it tomorrow for forty pounds.  On the way out I ask my question.  'I used to be Catholic', he tells me.  He was being confirmed with his brother and they asked him for his middle name.  He couldn't remember and so copied his brother's answer.  'And now it's on all my documents'.  He laughs and waves as he goes down the stairs.  'See you tomorrow, Richard', he says. 

(The following day, we share cups of tea and plastering tips.  He tells me that his parents moved to London from St Lucia when he was six months old and left him and his brother with their grandmother.  When he was six the two of them were put on 'a banana boat I suppose you'd call it' with name tags round their neck.  The young boys arrived at Victoria station.  'We didn't even have electricity at home', he tells me, 'and now there's all this steam and white people'.  On the platform they saw a black couple walking towards them holding a baby.  They put out their hands and introduced themselves to their sons.

'I'm fifty now, Richard.  I've got five grandchildren and counting', he says.  'I've got a four year-old with my current partner and guess what...'.  'What?', I say.  'She's pregnant', he tells me.)

Dev

Asking about wire brushes, plaster and hard-wearing bin bags in the local hardware shop, I am helped by a man with rectangular spectacles and a string necklace.  He is wearing a blue shirt, cargo shorts and white trainers.  He suggests that I come back tomorrow if I want more informed advice.

On my way out, I ask my question.  'In Indian it means something to do with being Godlike', he says.  I say that it sounds like a good name to have been given.  'I don't like it', he says.  'People say that it does not go with me but I have not been bothered to change it'.

Joan

Thinking about leaving a brightly-coloured badminton stadium.  'You don't know whether you're coming or going', says the lady in the brightly-coloured polo-shirt.  Her hair is blonde and cut into a sensible bob.  I ask if she is a badminton expert.  'I used to play it, actually', she says, 'but it's a coincidence - they just posted me here'.

I say that I've got a strange question for her.  'Oh good', she replies.  I ask it.  'Mine's terrible', she says.  'It's after my aunt'.  I say that I quite like it.  'At least it's not as bad as my sister's.  She was named after my other aunt'.  She makes a face.  'Aida', she says.

Angharad

Watching dancing nurses on the television, I am sitting next to a doctor who specialises in throat cancer.  She is wearing a black polka-dot dress and red lipstick.  'I've got a really good one', she says when I ask for her middle name.  In Welsh it means 'much loved one' so I suppose she is right.

Roksana, John Buchanan and Kaja

In a pub with candles on the tables and sherry decanters on the bar, the girl behind the bar is tired.  'Only half an hour to go', she says as I pay my bill.  She has red hair and wears an apron.  As I ask my question the barman listens in.  I ask how it is spelt.  'With a 'k'', she says, 'I am from Poland'.

'As in rock and a hard place?', asks the barman.  He has curly hair and a spring in his step.  She says she will write it down for me.  While waiting the barman asks what is the most unusual middle name I have come across.  I can't think off the top of my head but tell him that Ann(e) seems to be the most common.  'In my family, we always give family names', he tells me.  I get the feeling he wants to be included so I ask him too.  One is after his grandfather and the other a Scottish tribe.  'It's got a great tartan', he tells me, 'you'll recognise it'.

The girl with red hair comes back with hers written on a till receipt.  'I like my name', she tells me.

'I'll show you some', says the barman running off in search of some tartan.  Meanwhile the girl writes another name on a different receipt.  'This is my sister's', she says, demonstrating the pronunciation - a rasping sound in place of the 'j'.  The barman returns with a tartan rug.  It is nice.  'Very nice', I say.

'You should see what it looks like as a suit', he says.  'Me and my brother have got it in trousers, jacket and waistcoat'.  I am impressed.  'It looks pukka', he tells me.  I am sure it does.

Franklin

At the Olympic Park people in purple and red polo-shirts with matching baseball caps are being helpful in directing the crowds.  Some sit on umpire chairs with loudspeakers, 'Welcome to London, people', they announce, 'Bear left for Bridge A and right for Bridge B.  We hope you have a fantastic time'.  There are high-tech looking stadiums on either side of us and a sense of anticipation in the air.

Two of us have tickets in Bridge A and two of us in Bridge B.  We ask a grounded member of the purple and green team whether that means we have to separate on our way in.  'I don't know I'm just a pleb like you', he says despite his outfit suggesting otherwise.  'I say just all go through together and if you have any problems just say Ken told you it'd be fine'.  He indicates the name-badge that hangs round his neck.

I use the opportunity to ask his other name.  'Think Benjamin', he says and gives me an answer.  I ask why his parents chose it.  'Well, I was very young when I was born so I didn't think to ask', he replies.  He tells me he is from Birmingham by way of Zimbabwe, 'Part Zulu', he says.  We wish each other a happy Olympics.

Ann

Registering at my local doctor, the health assistant asks me probing questions about my alcohol intake and substance abuse.  'How often do you have memory-loss or black-outs as a result of alcohol?' she asks, 'Never, less than monthly, once or twice a month, weekly or daily?'  Her face is fixed in a wry smile.

She checks my blood pressure, weight and urine sample.  She asks in detail about the medical condition of my family.  'So that's your health-check complete', she tells me.

I use the opportunity to ask a question of my own.  She seems pleased to give an answer.  'So how's that going for you?' she asks.  I tell her that some days are better than others.  'Today has been nice though', I add.

'That's very unusual', she says smiling at her computer screen.

William

'He is very English and he don't like discussing his emotions', says the Argentinian girl who is staying in my spare room, 'and I am Latin, you know?'  She gestures with her hands.  The boy in question has ginger hair and is proving difficult to pin down. 

She asks my opinion of the English temperament.  I ask for his middle name. 

Dolores

On my street, a lady has a collection of wares piled up on the pavement that she is looking to sell.  There is a loud beeping as I walk past.  'It's my fire alarm', she says, opening a cardboard box to try and turn it off.  She is middle-aged, with frizzy red hair underneath a khaki fisherman's hat.  She is wearing an over-sized t-shirt on which is printed a colourful map of Barbados.

'Do you want it?' she asks.  'I can do it for you for two pounds'.  Having stopped the beeping, it promptly starts again.  'It's loud', she tells me.  I confirm that I can hear it.  'You just stick it to the wall', she says, 'I got given two of them so I've got this one spare, they're a fiver in the shops'.  I tell her that I need one that is attached to the mains.  'This doesn't even need a battery', she says with confidence.  I decide against.

'I think you've bought something from me before', she says.  'I recognise you'.  I'm not sure that I have but don't deny the possibility.  'Perhaps', I say and, before moving on, I ask my question.  The alarm has stopped beeping and is back in its box.  She is happy to give me an answer.

Theresa

Buying cake on a market stall, the sun is shining and everybody is in a good mood.  Above the table, filled with an array of baked goods, is a sign made of material scraps and buttons.  I ask the girl behind it which she recommends.  She answers with an Irish lilt,

'Well I particularly like the chocolate mocha,  but the lemon cake's very nice and the upside-down baked apple's delicious ... then there's the chocolate red-velvet ... well I think they're all great but then I would'. 

I consider my choice and we discuss the weather, her Friday-night baking routine and what she does with her left-overs.  I opt for the chocolate mocha, my friend has a brownie.  'Good choices', she says.

As she passes them over on paper plates, I ask my question.  'Can you guess?' she says.  I try Anne because it is common, then Jane because her first name is Mary and I am perhaps thinking of Spiderman's girlfriend.  Neither are correct.  She takes pity and gives me the answer.  'What's your name?' she asks.  I tell her, we shake hands and my friend and I go to find a spot in the sun to eat our cakes.  They are good choices.

Newton

In the pub and a girl with fringed blonde hair in a high pony-tail asks if a chair at the table is spare.  Her top is black and white stripes and her glasses are statement.  I tell her that it is but ask for a middle name in return.

'I don't have one', she says.  'Although my Mum always said I could have Newton because we're supposed to be related'.  I look suitably impressed.  'But she makes a lot of stuff up so I don't necessarily believe her'.

I decide that, for the purposes of my new year's resolution, I will.

Lopes

Buying some extra mature cheddar and a packet of a spinach in a large supermarket, I hover by an empty check-out.  'I'm opening', says the assistant wearing the green padded jacket that is her uniform.  She has square shiny earrings and is smiling.  We complete our transaction and as I am packing my rucksack I ask my question.

'As in Jennifer?', I check.  'Yes, except with an 's'', she corrects.  It is Portuguese.

'Is that okay?' she asks.  I tell her that it is more than.

Dulan

At a friend's house for supper and I am greeted by a small dog.  It is thin but exceedingly fluffy with an air of the fanatic.  He leads me to his owner, an American woman who has just washed her hair.  'He visits people in hospital', she says.  'He's a therapy dog'.  His name is Dexter.

I use the opportunity to ask her middle name.  'It's a really interesting one', she says.  'It's a family name'.  With Irish roots, she thinks that it was after 'Dolan' but misspelt somewhere along the way.  She shares it with her brother.  'I hated it when I was a kid', she says.  'I used to tell people my middle name was Lynne instead'.  I nod.  'But now I think it's quite cool'.

Mackenzie

The Australian physiotherapist has a thumb that clicks.  'Don't worry that's me not you', he reassures me.  I nod.  'You're probably going to feel a bit headachy and numb down your arm', he says, 'but that's quite normal'.  His polo shirt is a calming sky-blue.  He presses, crunches, twists and pops.  'I'm just really trying to work out some of these knots', he says.

Afterwards he gives me a strip of yellow rubber tape with which I can exercise the muscles in my middle back.  I ask my question.  He gives an answer and I thank him.  'No worries, mate', he says.

Elizabeth

At a story-telling event, grown-ups have five minutes to tell the audience something that has happened to them.  On my own, I perch in the only space available.  The girl next to me has blonde hair and a scarf patterned with flowers.  She asks if I have been before.  I say I haven't and mutter something about living nearby and deciding to pop by.  She mutters something about a friend standing her up.  'I think it's important to sometimes be brave and do things on one's own', I say.  'Cheers to that', she says clinking my glass.  She has a pint of Hoegarden with a lemon floating on top.  I have a pint of Guinness.  'Nothing to be ashamed of', she adds.

Later, I ask my question.  'I've never been asked my middle name before my first name', she says.

Marcellus

The peroxide-haired pop-artist whose exhibition I visited this afternoon doesn't have a middle name.  Instead today's is the subject of one of his screen-printed portraits.  A man who floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee, he changed his name when he converted to Islam.

His original name (including the middle) was shared with his father, a painter of billboards and signs who played the piano and was described by his son as 'the fanciest dancer in Louisville'.

He, in turn, was named (including the middle) after a founder of the Republican party and friend of Abraham Lincoln who was a leading voice in favour of the abolition of slavery.  Unfortunately, this 19th-century politician's emancipationist principles did not seem to apply in his private life.  At the age of 84 he married the 15 year-old daughter of one of his tenants.  He had to lock her in a room of his mansion to stop her from running away.  She reportedly tried to commit suicide by jumping out of the window before he finally granted her a divorce.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, two of his daughters became leaders of the American women's suffragette movement.

Alabama

Making a short film with an actress, she is a nurse and I am a patient expecting a vaccination.  Between takes, with syringe-poised, she tells me the middle names of her three year-old twins.  They have four each and a double-barreled surname.  'My husband and I just didn't like the same names', she tells me.  I tell her that I have no chance of remembering them all so I pick my favourite.  'I wanted my daughter's first name to be Alabama but she's got quite an Alabama-esque personality so it's probably a good thing that we didn't choose to emphasise it', she says.

Later, I meet the three year-olds in question.  They both have short hair pushed into a slight parting.  She has a pink tricycle and asks my name.  He has a musical tea-pot to which we dance.

Marie

Over supper amongst people I don't know very well, the subject comes up of when was the last time I was humiliated.  I explain this project and the relative regularity of such an occurrence as a result.  It is difficult to tell if the reaction is intrigued, amused or aghast.

Only one at the table had I never met before and she provides today's answer.  She has just finished a degree in screen-writing and is a single mum with two daughters.  Her hair is long and wavy and she is interested in themes of female sexuality.  She dismisses the idea that her name might be French.  Someone else suggests Irish.  She thinks that is more likely. 

Douglas

Taking shelter from the rain and cold in the corner of a pub, a man in a leather jacket approaches and puts both hands on our table.  'I know you think I'm going to ask for something', he says, 'but I woke up this morning with a terrible hang-over and I'm tryin'a blag a fag'.  His hair is shaved at the sides and short and gelled at the top.  His face is round.  I apologise and say I don't have one.  'Not to worry, mate', he says putting his hand out to shake.  It is covered with smatterings of white paint.  I use the opportunity to ask my question.

'That is ironical', he says, 'That is ironical'.  I ask him why.  'Well that's your new year's resolution he says and mine was not to tell anyone mine'.  He tells me anyway.  He chuckles.  'I feel like having a bit of a moment here', he says standing upright and putting his hands on his hips, 'I'm having a bit of a moment'.

He has his moment.  I thank him for his help.  He excuses himself and I wish him luck with his blagging.

Emily

On the pavement outside a cinema, I have just watched a documentary about a famous bespectacled Jewish film-maker.  Another audience member is standing on the pavement.  His hair is similarly tufty and he is wearing a shirt that is buttoned to the top but one.  I ask my question.  He seems wary, laughs half-heartedly and breathes.  'Emily', he replies after deliberation.  'I don't know if I believe you', I respond.  He begins to walk away.

His companion, a girl with long and wavy hair with a red handbag over her shoulder, hangs back apologetically.  'Should I believe him?' I ask her.  'No', she replies edging away, 'but it's mine'.  Her smile is sympathetic and she turns to catch up with her friend.  

George James

At the end of a musical about Communism in a fringe theatre, I approach the pianist to congratulate him and ask my question.  He has dark floppy hair and properly kept stubble.  He is wearing a velvet jacket and bowtie.  He speaks with a pronunciation that is received.

'Does that fill your quota?' he asks when he has given me an answer.  I tell him that it does and thank him for his help.

Alexander John

On the way out of a basement bar in Soho, I approach a round table at which three young men are sitting.  One has hair that is short and peroxide blonde and comes to a widow's peak at the front.  Another has a woolen jumper and a beard.  The third sits opposite me with a straight back and a red bobble hat.

I address the table with my question.  The blonde man gets in first.  'I've got two', he says and offers a response.  'Do you just need the one?' says the man with the beard.  Without wanting to disappoint I explain that I do.  'Thank you very much', I say.  The two of them nod in acquiescence.  The man in the bobble hat remains immobile. 

Elaine

Walking past the entrance to a McDonald's in the rain, I am tapped on the shoulder by a woman in a hooded jacket with a furry trim.  'Excuse me', she says, 'do you have 28p you could lend?'  I pause long enough for her to continue.  'I'm trying to get some money to top up my Oyster card so I can get the bus'.  I look in my pocket and find thirty pence.  'Thank you', she says, 'I'm saving up to get one pound thirty, but you can't really ask people for all that'.

I tell her about my resolution.  She is happy to give me an answer and explains the reasoning.  'My Dad wanted to call me Elaine but my Mum wanted to call me Janet so she decided to call me Janet and use the other as me middle', she says.  I thank her.  ''Salright', she says.

Daisy Morna

Watching mediocre British television on a Saturday night with no prospect of meeting anyone I don't know, these are the middle names of an actress who made me laugh in a sitcom that generally didn't.

Ann

In a cafe with bicycle wheels on the wall and demerara sugar in old tins of Lyle's Black Treacle, I am pretending to make small talk for a documentary crew who are following aspects of my friend's life.  Three of us sit at a wooden table. 

The other friend has bright ginger hair, pale skin and a shirt that is bronze.  I have never met her before.  She laughs when I ask my question.  'That's an exciting new year's resolution', she says, 'my middle name isn't'.  When I ask, she tells me it is spelled without an 'e'.  'Much to my grandmother's dismay', she says.  Her grandmother believed that Anne should always be spelled with an 'e'. 

'Was she right?' I ask.

'My grandmother was rarely right', she replies.

Joel(le?) and Elizabeth

A courier with a luminous gilet and an over-sized black baseball cap arrives at my door with a package.  I think I recognise him from yesterday.  'Yeh, but it was for a different number', he says when I check.  I sign the computer screen to acknowledge receipt and ask my question.  He pronounces it as I would imagine to be a girl's name but I don't have time to check the spelling.

Later, I meet the mother of my brother's girlfriend over a family lunch.  She has come to pick up her daughter after six months abroad.  The subject of my blog comes up and she offers up her middle name.  A bonus.  She didn't use to like it but now she has taken to using a shortened version in her e-mail address.

Shyama

Once again buying flowers, this time half-price Sweet Williams with a bottle of white wine in a supermarket, it is late and the girl at the check-out seems friendly and approachable.  Unfortunately she doesn't have a middle name.  Her colleague, an older woman two tills away, is slouched and twidling her hair while listening into our conversation.  The supermarket is not busy. I ask if she can help. She smiles.  She can.

Sandra

Buying flowers again, this time for an aunt and uncle, the girl at the check-out asks me how much they are.  'Are you sure?' she says when I tell her.  'Don't you believe me?' I ask.  'I just wanted to check', she speaks in a foreign accent and looks coy.  I decide to ask my question.

'She doesn't have one', says her colleague from the other end of the counter.  He is Indian and protective.  'Do you?' I ask.  He laughs and shakes his head.  'Even I don't have one', says a rotund lady who also appears behind the counter carrying a box of cleaning fluid.

I look around.  Behind me is a young woman with her red hair scraped back into a tight and long ponytail.  Her glasses are metallic and carved into an intricate design.  She is carrying a brrom, a mop and a bucket.  She is very thin.  She gives me an answer.

'It's terrible', she says.  'I hate it'.

Henry

At the tube station a girl is sitting on a low ledge straddling a large red bag.  She has short hair and high-top trainers.  I approach and explain my request.  She listens to the end and then says, 'I'm sorry.  Please.  More slowly'.  I take the direction.  I am slow.  And clear.  And use gestures.  'Ah, I don't have one', she shrugs.

'Oh no', I say.  And in desperation, 'Are you sure?'

'No', she says (by which I think she means 'Yes').

'That's strange', I say, for want of something better.

'Why strange?' she asks defensively, 'I think it's normal'.  I try to explain that in England most people have a middle name.  'For example?' she says.  I rack my brain.  'Yeh.  Well.  I'm from Italy.  So...'  I tell her it was nice to meet her

Immediately, I move on to an older woman who is loitering in a lime green coat.  'Sorry, don't have one', she says in a Northern accent.  'This is not a good day', I tell her.

Instead, today's middle name is the answer I gave to the Italian girl when asked for an example.  I don't know why.  But it seemed as good as any.

Maria

Not officially a middle name but the 'invisible' first name of my new Argentinian flat-mate.  'In Argentina you usually are known by your middle name', she explains.  'Don't laugh, but I'm really into astrology', she also says.  She tells me that, as an Aries, I am always seeking out new initiatives.