Rachel, Elizabeth and Kennedy

I ask the girl sitting at the box office what they have on tonight.  She tell me that two of the shows are sold out and the other is a stand-up comedian.  She doesn't look enthusiastic and I decide to give it a miss.

'Lichtenstein's pretty cool though, huh?' she says.  She has seen the poster of an exhibition that I am carrying in a transparent bag.  'Yes', I say.  She has long dark hair.

'We're art students so we love that kind of stuff', she says.  She gestures to the girl sitting next to her whose hair is frizzy and strawberry blonde.  She has piercings.  'Yeh, I loved it', she says.  On the other side is a skinny boy with an exaggerated quiff and big black glasses.  I ask if he is an art student as well.  'I do nothing', he says.

The four of us discuss the exhibition with enthusiasm.  We talk about the progression of his work and painted versus printed media but there are other customers approaching.

Quickly, I ask my question.  Efficiently, they each give me an answer.

Shawan

'Hello', says the security guard standing by a stained glass window in a modern art museum.  She is a big black woman with short back and sides.  The top is an diagonal asymmetric fringe.  She is wearing a white shirt and black waistcoat.  'Hello', I reply.

'Where are you from?' she asks.  I tell her.  She shudders.  'That's what got me into trouble the first time', she says.  'My son's father was from Birmingham'.  I ask if it brings back bad memories.  'It just makes me wanna choke you', she says taking two steps forward.  I take two steps back.  'Sorry', I say.  'No, no', she says, 'I'm over that now'.  'I'm not from Birmingham', I say.

The tension averted, I ask my question.  'What's yours?' she asks with suspicion.  She gives me hers in exchange.  I ask where it comes from.  'My mother just made it up', she says.  'Just like my first name'.  We introduce ourselves and shake hands.  'It's nice to meet you, Richard', she says.  I go to look at the stained glass.

(An hour later we pass again in the main hall.  She puts up her hand and waves her fingers.  'Hello Richard', she says.  'Hello', I reply.)

Raouf, Alexander and Mark

Three guys are outside a bar having a cigarette.  One looks at me as I pass.  'How you doin'?'  he asks.  It is late and I haven't yet got a middle name so I seize the opportunity.

'I've got the best one', says the guy by who I was greeted.  I have to ask him to spell it.  'What kind of fake accent are you using?' he asks.  'Australian?' suggests one of his companions.  'It's British', I tell them.  'Sounds South African', says the other.  'My new year's resolution is bustin' people with fakes accents', says the middle one.  'I need to see ID', says the first guy.  'Do you know what a bloke is?'

I tell them I'm from London.  They seem satisfied.  'Well, you act like an English person and you dress like an English person so I believe you', says my middle name.  His friend offers up his as a back-up.  'In case you forget his', he says.  The third gets in on the action.

'Wait a minute', says the original.  'Are we on candid camera?'  We shake hands and wish each other well.

Charles

Accosted on the street by a man who wants to give me a massage, I pause for long enough for him to give me his spiel.  He has a big smile, tanned skin and grey hair with a moustache to match.  He is wearing opaque-rimmed sunglasses.  The lenses are only slightly tinted.

He is offering a fifty-minute massage for only thirty-nine dollars but I am in a rush.  He gives me a leaflet and I say I will think of him if I find myself tense during the week.  I ask my question.  He gives me an answer and asks for mine in return.  I tell him.  'What?  Were your parents some kind of hippies?' he asks.  'Not really', I reply.

Louisa

Watching a comedy show in the outskirts of the city the girls sitting next to me says, 'Are you alone?'  I detect a English accent.  She tells me that she prefers to think of herself as 'solo'.  Originally from Basingstoke, she is on a trip before starting work in Milton Keynes.

Taking the opportunity of companionship we go for a post-show drink in a local bar.  The barman, with Irish roots, recommends we see some jazz at his favourite nearby joint.  We do.

'This is so Chicago', she says as the saxophonist croons.  Her middle name is after her great-grandmother.

Jean

Waking up in a new city I take shelter from the rain, if not the wind, in a neighbourhood coffee shop.

'Do you think it's going to go away?' I ask the lady behind the counter.  'I think it's going to rain all day', she says.  'And it's supposed to thunderstorm this evening'.  She is large and friendly.  Around her right upper-arm is a brightly-coloured tattoo.  On her head she wears a blue-patterned bandana.  I order a coffee and a slice of apple cinnamon cake.  I sit in the window and watch the weather.

Half an hour later and it seems to be abating.  I go to pay.  She asks where I am from and what I am doing in the city.  We talk about childhood enthusiasm, baking cakes and rain.  I ask my question.  'It's after my grandmother on one side, and also on the other side', she tells me.  I say that I'll be back to try a different cake before I leave.  I go out and brave the elements.  I get wet.

Michael

It is hot and I decide that something advertised as a 'snowball' sounds appealing.  I approach the counter and am faced with a bamboozling variety of flavours.

'This is how we decide', says the man behind the counter handing me a plastic teaspoon.  Into it he pours brightly-coloured syrups which I have to taste before he reveals what they are.  I try ruby pomegranate, cucumber and melon, chocolate, sour apple and egg custard.  I chose the sour apple.  The server, who is young, wears a dark green apron over a lighter green polo-shirt.  His hair is a short buzz-cut and he has metal-rimmed glasses.  His eye-contact is slightly squiffy.

'Okay then', he says and proceeds to shave a block of ice into tiny shards.  'Hold out your hand', he says and gives me a handful of the powdered ice.  It does feel like snow.  'That's what it's like', he says.  He fills a cup with the snow and copious quantities of the viscous emerald green liquid.

Ten minutes later I pass the stall again.  'How was your snowball?' he asks.  'Very good', I reply because it was.  I ask my question.  He tells me his first name first and then his middle.  He is from a nearby state and recently moved to the city that needs ways to cool down.

Carol

In a bookshop that used to be the home of William Faulkner, I have to admit that I have never read any of his books.  'Well, I'd start you off with the short stories', says the lady who welcomed me as I opened the door to the ringing of bells.  She is wearing a white shirt with white culottes.  Her hair is bobbed and blonde.  She has a pair of bright red spectacles perched on the end of her nose and a string of pearls around her neck.

She gets a volume off the shelf.  'We all read A Rose for Emily here in America', she says, 'I want you to read that one first'.  It is a hardback and I tell her that I'm unsure about carrying it around with me all day.  I ask what time she is open until.  'Six o'clock', she says.

At five thirty I return and she is closing the doors.  'You made it back', she says.  'Just in time'.  I purchase the book along with a play about the danger of relying on the kindness of strangers.  She runs to the back of the shop to fetch me  a 'freebie' by a local author.  It is a 'scorching' mystery story about Heloise Lewis, a 'soccer mum/suburban madam'.

As I leave I ask my question.  She tells me it is after her aunt. 

 (It is not until later that I realise that the photo on the back of my freebie looks remarkable similar to my middle name.  A little internet research and I discover that the New York Times bestselling author does indeed have a book-selling sister.  The mystery thickens...)

Mae

The ninety-four year-old owner of the place on an empty street in which I ate fried chicken and butter beans for lunch.  Now retired (the place is run by her great grand-daughter) she started her restaurant in the spare room of her house because locals liked the smell of what she was cooking.  When the effects of a hurricane flooded her kitchen and home seven years ago, volunteers pulled together to bring her restaurant back.

I didn't meet her but this is testament to the secret recipe for the finest and deepest fried food I have ever tasted.

Janet and Ernest

The couple with whom I am staying are self-professed members of the baby boomers generation.  'I've had the best of this world in my life', says my hostess.  Her voluminous red hair is piled on top of her head and seems to be held in place with a feather.  She works in a vintage clothes shop and wears something long and flowery.  He is a jazz trumpeter with an easy-going demeanour.  The hair he has left is grey and long.

Her middle name was chosen by her four year-old sister because of the association with John.  'They were the only children's books we had in New Zealand', she tells me.  Her mother had insisted that her first name was after the Queen.  'She was bristling with fervour for royalty', she says. 

He is from America and his is after his father.

Michael

On a twenty-six hour train journey I am sat next to a blonde-haired celebrity make-up artist.  He is heading south to visit his family.  'I don't do hugging and I don't do talking', he says by way of introduction.  'Do you drink?' he says next.  In his bag he has half a bottle of wine.  He pours me a glass and suggests a dinner reservation in the dining car.  I agree and he goes to book us a table.

He returns with another half bottle and offers some to the black girl sitting in front of us.  'Wanna come to dinner?', he asks, 'I have reservations'.  She accepts.

Making our way to the dining car, and jovial from wine, he picks up two more black ladies (one in her forties and the other in her sixties) to join our table.  The five of us squeeze into a booth made for four.  He orders three more half bottles.

'You're the ring leader', says the waiter to my seat companion.  There are carnations on the tables.  The food takes a while to arrive.  The ring-leader orders more wine.  'Liqour's on me', he announces and fills our glasses.  He tells us about his plans for adoption.  The black lady in her forties steals the carnations from the neighbouring tables for her boyfriend.  We are the last customers left in the dining car.  There is a small ruckus over the bill.

On the way back to our seats the ring-leader and the carnation stealer go in search of somewhere on the train to have a cigarette.  On his return, and at regular intervals during the night, he pokes me to keep me updated on the passengers around us.  An old lady opposite eats peanut butter form a plastic pot in the early hours of the morning.

After twenty-three hours, it is his stop.  He gives me his card on the front of which is a topless model.  I ask what the 'm.' stands for.  He gives me an answer.

Francis

At the train station the lady behind the counter tells me that my ticket has not been paid for.  I tell her that I'm sure it has.  'You just wait right here', she says and goes to get her supervisor.

'It's not been paid', he says checking the reservation.  He is portly with black glasses and a bald head.  He is wearing the blue short-sleeved uniform of the railway system.  I express surprise and slight agitation.

'Well she ain't goin' pay for it', he says gesturing towards my original server, 'and I ain't goin' pay for it'.  He looks at me.  'So..'

After some discussion he allows me to use his phone to call the toll-free number.  He puts me thorugh to an operator who gives me a new reservation number.  He types it into his computer.

'Now we got you, brother', he says.  'Now we got you'.  He shows the difference between this screen and the previous.  I express relief.  'It's a done deal, brother', he says.

As the tickets print I ask my question.  He gives me an answer and puts out his hand.  'Thomas Francis Browne Junior', he says.  We shake.  He gives me my tickets.  'Pleased to meet you, sir', he says.

Januarius

A picnic for employees and families of an international financial institution and it is raining.  We stand, huddled in a concrete shelter, eating sushi, pork buns and cupcakes.

I talk to a husband.  He is wearing a polo shirt and checked shorts.  Originally from Idonesia, he likes tennis and his gait is spritely.  Two of the small girls running round the shelter belong to him.  He tells me he is a fan of the television show, 'Spooks'.

'My middle name is also my last name', he says in response to my question.  'It's confusing'.  He explains that when he first came to the States, twenty years ago, they mixed up his names on the immigration form.  When his father came to visit his newborn grand-daughter, fifteen years later, he was surprised to find her birth-certificate not bearing the surname he expected.

He tells me that he was raised a Catholic and the name is after a Catholic saint.  I ask if his children are being brought up in the same religion.  He looks over to his wife and shrugs.  'I don't know', he says.

Marie Fleur

At a party with a preponderance of French people, another one walks through the door.  She has blonde hair and beige thick-rimmed glasses.  She tells me she is a 'futurist'.  I say that sounds exciting.  She says she likes English people.

Seizing the opportunity, I ask for her middle name.  'It's just on my ID', she says, 'I never use it'.  I tell her that it doesn't matter.  She gives me an answer.  'Yes', she says, 'it's quite a good one actually'.

Lawrence

The smart-looking stationery shop turns out to be one dedicated to 'Book Arts'.  Inside are different coloured leathers and marbled papers hanging from wooden poles.  Skillfully bound and gold-plated books are on display.  On the walls are photographs of gifts being given to the Queen and Prince Charles and a signed picture of the President of the United States.

'Those are just our calling cards', says the man behind the desk, 'for people who don't know'.  He continues, 'State gifts actually only make up a small percentage of our business'.

He is of sturdy build and is wearing a beige polo-shirt with khaki trousers.  His dark grey hair is thinning and combed back.  He tells us about an under-appreciated gift to a grumpy UK Prime Minister.  'It was actually a selection of DVDs chosen by the American Film Institute', he tells us, 'and beautifully presented in a hand-made leather box'.  He shows us a copy of the gold inscription.  'It wasn't just a couple of blockbuster videos', he says.  I am impressed.

'And then they went and gave the Queen an i-pod', he continues.  The device, with a pair of speakers, arrived on his desk one day and he was told to 'do something with it'.  He describes the box he created.  'But the Queen's a real techie', he tells us, 'she requested it and we loaded it with songs from Broadway'.

There is no one else in the shop so I move on to ask my question.  From a Venetian family of book makers, the name is an anglicised version of 'Lorenzio'.  He is passionate about his art and shows us a recently printed and bound copy of Tennessee Williams plays.  The cover papers were based on the pattern of a vintage Chanel handbag.  'We thought it was the most appropriate', he says.

At eight and a half thousand dollars, the price tag is beyond my means but I tell him how much I have enjoyed seeing his work.  He tells us about business with the Chinese and Russians.  Some of his work might even be in the Library of Congress.  I tell him I'm going to visit it tomorrow.

'Well look out for my stuff', he says.  'And drop by anytime you're in town'.

Francis and 'M'

'You still doin' alright there?' asks the man in the museum shop.  I am looking at a toaster that toasts the face of the President of America onto sliced bread.  'Yes, thank you', I reply and tell him how much I have enjoyed my visit.  I have seen a mechanical version of the story of Icarus, a sculpture garden dedicated to Anita Roddick and a locomotive in the form of a gigantic pink poodle called Fifi.

'I've been running the store here for fifteen years', he tells me.  He is wearing a green and brown Hawaiian shirt over jeans which are tucked into leather boots. I decide to ask him my question.

'I don't have one', he says, 'I've only got an initial'.  He calls over to the boy behind the counter, 'What's your middle name?'  The boy, with thick NHS-style glasses and a quiff, gives an answer.

'We were too poor to have middle names', he continues.  I ask what initial his parents chose.  He tells me.  Then, moving on; 'We were so poor my mother had to cut out the pockets of my trousers to give me something to play with'.

It takes me a moment.  Then I get it.

David

'Isn' he great?' says the man standing next to me in an exhibition about the artist who dreamt of and then painted the American flag.  I agree.  He is wearing a well-worn baseball cap on the lip of which are brass buttons.  His white shirt has wooden toggles and is open over a white shirt.

'Where are you from?' he asks.  I tell him.  'I thought you might be from France', he says, 'what with your little socks and everything'.  He is from New York by way of ancestry in the West Indies, he tells me.  We discover that he spent a semester studying at the same University as me.  He tells me that he went to see Margaret Thatcher at the big bookshop.  'We didn't talk much', he says.  'She just said, Hello' (he does an English accent) 'and signed my book'.

He is an art dealer and 43 years-old, although he looks younger.  'How old are you?' he asks.  'Aww, just a baby', he replies when I give him an answer.  I ask his middle name.  He gives me an answer.

On the way out, I bump into him again.  'Where are you off to now?' he asks.  I don't have an immediate answer.  'Wanna go get a beer?' he suggests.  I waver but, in the spirit of international relations, agree.  We sit outside.  He orders a pitcher and tells me about his fondness for Patricia Routledge, the democratic cause and Amsterdam.  When we finish, he gives me his card and tells me to look out for any exhibitions he might do in London.  I tell him I will.

Ann (without an 'e')

Amidst talk of senate races, great speakers of the twentieth century and overexerted work-outs, I am served peach melba by an architect with silver stars in her earlobes.  She has made the caramel sauce herself.  She tells me the recipe (1 cup granulated sugar, 6 tablespoons butter, 1/2 cup cream and sea salt to taste).  It is good.

She says that she likes my resolution.  I tell her that hers is the most popular middle name so far.  Her boyfriend, who has skipped his water-polo practice to be there, wants to know if I will write about her peach melba.  I tell him I probably will.

Natalie

In a neighborhood of hipsters, I buy a pair of sunglasses from a popular thrift store.  The girl serving me has mismatched earrings and hair piled on her head in a loosely tied bun.  Around her neck hangs a chunky brass key along with other objects.

'Do you want a bag with that?' she asks.  I must look indecisive.  'I can give you one', she says, 'I'm so bored'.  I tell her that I'm sorry to hear that.  'It's not a good thing to be bored', she says.  I agree and decide to do what I can to alleviate the problem.

'You want to know my middle name?' she asks, her eyes lighting up.  I tell her I do.  She gives me an answer.  'My parents were going to give it to me as a first name', she says, 'but my sister got to chose'.  Happily, she is glad of her sister's choice.

Another customer is hovering so, with my sunglasses, I wish her a better afternoon and head out into the sunshine.

Julian

The son of a friend of my brother returns from the park with a blister.  He has blonde hair cut into the shape of a pudding bowl and is close to tears.  He is four years-old.  His mother, a plaster and some chocolate cake resolve the issue. 

He sits on the sofa and shows us a book of his recent adventures on the subway.  One trip involved seven transfers in an hour and a half.  He takes us through each one.  He knows the metro map by heart and gives detailed itineraries for any journey that is suggested to him.  He happily corrects his mother.

I ask him his middle name and he gives me an answer without question before going back to the metro map to study some of the more obscure intersections. 

Merrill

At a dinner party in the Bronx I meet a novelist who has recently spent six months in isolation on a farmhouse in Central America to finish his third book.  He talks about 'going feral'.  He stopped shaving and used to go jogging wearing nothing but a pair of trainers.  One of his anecdotes involves a helicopter and a naked encounter with a rattle snake.  He has lightly disheveled curly hair and is wearing a plaid shirt.  He has shaved for the occasion.

I ask his middle name in passing.  He tells me he is connected to the lately troubled financial institution that his ancestor founded along with Edward Lynch (middle name Calvert) but not closely enough to do anything about it.

Elizabeth

My brother is on a coach to come and meet me with his new girlfriend.  I phone him with two questions: an estimated time of arrival and a middle name.  He gives me answers to both.

Joan

In an exhibition about New York lunch breaks I press a button to hear a song about a meal dispensing machine.  'You're too young to remember the Automat', says a strong accent from behind me.  She is short with cropped hair in a light shade.  Her skin is brown and weathered.  With her is a lady of similar age whose hair is a voluminous russet with a blond streak.  She is wearing tortoise-shell sunglasses the arms of which are thick and golden.

They reminisce about putting a quarter in the slot and taking out a bowl of hot soup or creamed spinach.  'Whole meals', says the short-haired lady.  She has been to the exhibition before but wanted to bring her friends as an exercise in nostalgia.  'You must listen to all the songs', she tells me.  'And watch the videos'.  They find the menu for a Diner they recognise.

'I don't have one', she says when I ask my question.  'And nor does she', nodding towards her friend with the bling sunglasses.  She calls over a third companion who used to be a teaching colleague of hers.  'This young gentleman wants to know your middle name', she says.  The colleague, with glasses perched on the end of her nose, a striped top and shorts, gives me the answer I need.

Michelle

By e-mail I have arranged to meet a friend of a friend for a drink in her city.  My phone is not working and we have resorted to arranging a time and a place.  I will be wearing a blue-checked shirt.  She will be 'tall with long brown/red hair and mostly wearing black'.

I am five minutes late and there is another man in blue-checks hovering by the entrance.  After being refused a couple of optimistic eye-contacts, I find a girl, mostly in black, who responds.  We establish our prior connection.

We have a beer and walk along a raised railway line which, after years of disuse, has been planted and made into a public pathway.  She points out the most important sights including a hotel that rents rooms by the hour. 

Over some food and sitting in a seat recently vacated by a celebrity (the waiter is talkative), I ask what the 'M' in her e-mail address stands for.  She tells me that for Googling reasons she has had to distinguish herself from others who share her name including an actress, a designer and a call girl.

Helene

Watching from a small window an orange sunset behind the Manhattan skyline, I talk for the first time to the girl who has been sitting next to me for the past seven and a half hours.  She is small with long dark hair and has spent much of the flight curled up on her seat, occasionally laughing out loud to something she was watching on the entertainment system.  We agree that it is quiet a sight.

She is a New Yorker returning home after a year studying economics in London.  She was brought up in Long Island.  She is Jewish.  In London she was living in Bloomsbury.

We talk about the Tower of London, traffic diversion and rain.  She is happy to offer me a middle name.  Her aunt was called Helen but, as a middle name, it was already taken by her cousin so her mother decided to add an 'e'.

We disembark the plane to our separate immigration queues.

Ebenezar Angels

In a high street pharmaceutical shop I am scouring the aisles for a toothbrush.  Easy-listening popular music is playing.  I hear the voice of someone singing along.  'We didn't know it wouldn't last (ooh ooh), when we were young', he sings.  I turn to look.

Leaning against a pillar is a round security guard wearing a crisp white shirt and black tie.  His face is circular, bald and smiling.  He is short.  'This is my favourite of all the songs they play', he says.  I ask who sings it.  'I think it is by that band Take That', he says.  He tells me that in another store he had managed to get a peek at the CD listings.  'But I haven't had time to go to the HMV yet', he says.

He seems amenable so I decide to ask my question.  'As in Scrouge?' I ask.  He laughs and hits me on the arm.  'No', he says, 'I was named circumstancially'.  I am confused.  'Because of the circumstances', he explains.  I nod.

He tells me that his mother was brought up in a small village in Africa and that the nearest village, where her mother lived, was a few hours 'travel by legs'.  Whilst pregnant with my security guard she was walking between the villages when she began to give birth.  Unable to be transported anywhere else she produced her child under the shelter of a church belonging to the Saint who later gave his name to a famous bah humbugger of Christmas.  'You see, circumstancially', he says.  The second part was because of the holy conditions of his arrival.

'And there's some truth in it', he says.  He tells me that of all his brothers and sisters he is the most educated.  He is forty-four and not married yet because 'there is stuff I need to do to myself'.  He tells me that he is trying to 'connect spiritually'.

We are interrupted by someone who wants to know where to find soap.  He tells them and I begin to look for my toothbrush.

'You see', he says as I make my way down the aisle, 'there's something in a name'.  He smiles.

 

Mohammad Sourian

The Greco-Roman wrestling is a confusing sport to watch.  Men in singlets adopt intimate positions, limbs intertwined, and try to push, flip or ground each other for two minutes at a time.  Three matches happen simultaneously.  A man through a microphone tells a blank-faced audience to pick a wrestler and cheer.

The one we pick goes on to win the gold medal in the under 55kg category.  They are all very small.  This is his middle name.

Maria

Wheeling a bicycle down a temporarily pedestrianised London road, I am stopped in my tracks by a stirring chorus.  A large group are standing around a stage-truck swaying their hips and singing their hearts out.  'I believe in the power that comes', they sing, 'from a world brought together as one.  I believe in together we'll fly.  I believe in the power of you and I'.  I am inspired.

They follow it with a rousing rendition of 'Africa' by Toto, complete with hand movements.  They are a motley crew of all ages, shapes and sizes.  The crowd that have assembled (admittedly less in number than the choir themselves) give an enthusiastic round of applause.

I approach one of their members.  'I really enjoyed your performance', I say.  She is a middle-aged lady with salt-and-pepper hair cut into a straight fringe.  She has a brightly-coloured string around her neck to hold her glasses.  Her black shirt bears the logo of the 'Monterey Peninsula Choral Society'.  She is, as you would expect from her singing, friendly.  'We're a community choir', she tells me, 'we're not even properly trained as singers'.  One hundred and ten of them have come to London to give performances around the city during the Olympics.  Yersterday they performed in Westminster Abbey.  'We don't have time to see any sports', she says.

She asks if I have ever been to the States.  I say that I am planning a trip there shortly.  'Shoot', she says looking in her pockets, 'they don't let us bring bags with us and I don't even think I've got a pen'.  She wants to give me her e-mail address so that she could put me in touch with her children who live in San Fransisco.  'You probably won't have time', she says.  I don't have a pen either but type it into my phone.

Before leaving I ask my question.  'I didn't used to like it', she tells me.  'I thought it was too prim, prissy, whatever'.  Her dad had stenciled her full-name onto her bicycle (she points at mine to demonstrate) and she had scratched out the offending middle.  'He wasn't very happy', she says.  'But now I think it's pretty'.

Jean-Pierre

A man who promotes opportunity for gay, lesbians and transgenders in sport is using my flat as a base for a business trip to London.  He has well-cropped grey hair and a lively demeanour.  He is from Canada.

As I make his bed, he tells me about the effort to spread contraception in Thailand.  'Condoms, condoms, condoms', he says.  He tells me about a venue that was hired 'to give men the snip'.  It was called 'The Ballroom'.

'You never know who's gay', he says.  'I mean you don't have to look like Liberace or Elton John'.

I apologise for the state of the bathroom and ask my question.  I hand over my keys.

Craig Paul

The waiter in the cafe who knows my order has a mouth-full of food as I'm trying to pay.  While I wait for him to finish, I explain my resolution.  He has a shaved head and a diamond stud in each ear.  He is wearing a black apron over casual clothes.  He nods, swallows and gives me an answer.

'Paul's after my uncle', he says, 'and Craig's after a boy who punched my mother in the stomach while she was pregnant with me'.  He looks proud.

'Sorry?' I say.

'Yeh.  It's true', he says.  'She took him under her wing, got him into college and named my middle name after him'.

'Wow', I say.  Meaning it.

Stanley

In the park with a cousin and her toddler, we meet, at a gate, a gentleman walking a curly-haired dog.  His hair is combed over in a side-parting.  'That's different', he says when I ask my question.  'I'm interested in things that are different'.  He used to work in a men's outfitters on the King's Road, 'and on the fringes of show business, you know', he says.

'Well, I've never told anyone this before', he says in response to my question, 'but when I was born they thought that I might be mentally retarded'.  I nod.  'My mother wanted to call me Simon but she was worried about the connotations', he says.  'I used to be known by my middle name'.  When he was nineteen a friend and he decided that they liked the name Simon and he has been known as it ever since.  'The hardest part was getting my family to change', he says.

I am about to move on but he has more to say.  He tells me that he is a park warden because he walks dogs so regularly.  'The police here all know me very well', says.  'Not like that, you know'.  He tells me that he often ends up doing their job but the toddler and the dog are getting restless.  We begin to part ways.

'You're the only person I've ever told that story to', he reminds me.