what's your middle name?

Someone once told me that you should try to learn something new every day.
With this in mind, each day of 2012 I will try to discover the middle name of someone I do not know.
This blog charts my progress.
Richard M. Crawley


Sunday 30 September 2012

Mary

Outside the ruins of a Welsh castle, a lady sits in a makeshift cabin selling tickets and memorabilia.  Her hair is a big bouffant of blonde and her face dwarfed in comparison.  Her skin is like crepe paper.

She recoils in what seems like horror at my question.  'I'm sorry', I say.  'I didn't mean to upset you'.  She shakes her head.  'No, no', she says.  'I've just never been asked something like that before'.  She thinks for a moment.  'You have a different one everyday?' she asks.  'Yes', I say.

She makes a suggestion.  'Jacob', she says.  I am confused.  'Is that your middle name?' I ask.  She is also confused.  'Oh.  You want to know my middle name', she says.  'Yes please', I say.  We are on the same page.  She gives me an answer.

I thank her for her help.  'Enjoy your visit', she says.

(The reaction of today's middle name reassures me that, even if hackneyed in South-East London, Kevin, the trend is yet to reach the depths of the countryside in South Wales.)


Saturday 29 September 2012

Sterre

In the large concrete atrium of a modern art gallery, human beings are casually assembled.  They sit quietly, run, chant and interact.  In a pause, I approach one who is lounged on the floor.  She is regularly attired and has a straight fringe.  Her face is wide.

She gets up to give me an answer.  She tells me that her parents gave her two older sisters normal names but she was given strange ones. 

I ask if she thinks that an unusual name informs a personality.  'Perhaps', she says before leaving abruptly to take part in a communal stepping exercise.

Friday 28 September 2012

Kevin

'That's the third or fourth time someone's asked me that', says the barman at my local pub.  He is tall with short brown hair, a thin face and a black t-shirt.  I am aghast.  'Are you sure?' I ask.  He nods. 

A quick mental check confirms that it is not me who has asked him before.  I wonder if I have started a local phenomenon.  Or sub-consciously latched onto a tired old cliche.  I feel cheap.

'Will you tell me anyway?' I ask.  He looks disappointed by his answer.

Thursday 27 September 2012

August

The first middle name to be sung at me with the backing of a full orchestra is a blind beggar with a long white beard.  Born in 1877, he has come to the Office of Dreams to request an escape from his grim reality.  The clerk refuses him on the grounds that beggars are only allowed one dream a week.  On Fridays.

Wednesday 26 September 2012

Jane

In the empty foyer of a multiplex cinema two women stand in conversation.  On has short dark hair that feathers at the ends.  The other has longer hair, a dark jacket and leather boots.  They are probably in their forties.

'I don't have one so I'm no use', says the first.  I look to the other.  'I can help you out', she says.  She does.  I ask them if they enjoyed the film.  My middle name replies. 

'Well, it's certainly got us talking', she says.

Tuesday 25 September 2012

Dominic

In a pub there is talk of the last tube.  I realise that time is running out and turn to the table behind me.  A man with excitable hair is sitting alone with a pint of Guinness.  'You've done this everyday of 2012?' he asks.  I tell him that's correct.  He presses the button on his i-phone.  The screen is cracked.  'Do you know what time it is?' he asks.  'You've got twenty-six minutes left'.  I tell him that's why I'm asking.  'What'll you do is I refuse to tell you?' he asks.  I tell him that he will leave me in dire straits.  'It doesn't sound like you've got much of a plan', he says, 'but if you want to know my middle name I'd be delighted to tell you'.  He does.  He is Irish.  From Limerick.

Monday 24 September 2012

James

Leaning on a motorcycle by the side of the road is a squat man in a red and black padded jacket.  In need of a middle name, I decide to approach.  'Why's that?' he says in response to my question.  He has a grey pointed beard and moustache.  On his head he wears a Harley Davidson cap over which are strapped a pair of plastic goggles.

I explain about my resolution and say something about being hoist by my own petard.  He interrupts with an answer.  I detect a twang and ask if he is Australian.  'Yes, Australian, yes', he replies but I get the sense that he was enjoying his solitude and leave him to his urban repose.

Sunday 23 September 2012

Patricia

It is raining and, having spent the morning getting wet, I spend the afternoon on the sofa in the company of a beautiful film star who gave up her acting career at the age of twenty-six to become a princess.  At fifty-five she died after having a stroke at the wheel of her car.  I watch her drive recklessly across the Cote d'Azur.

Saturday 22 September 2012

Hilary

At half-past eleven in a twenty-four hour shop I buy two bottles of red wine for five pounds and two cans of Coca Cola.  At the counter is a large selection of dog collars.

The man at the till doesn't have one.  'We just have family mane and first name in Afghanistan', he says.  Instead I ask the man behind me in the queue.  He is wearing a black beanie and has a diamond stud in each earlobe.  He is holding two cans of Special Brew.  He shakes his head.  'It's not good', he says.  I tell him it doesn't matter.  'It's not good', he repeats.  I ask him what's wrong with it.  'It's a bit...', he scrunches his face, 'feminine', he says.

He mentions a television doctor who has the same name.  'Now I'm an adult', he says, 'I accept it'.  He tells me that his father was a Catholic.  'He dies last year', he says.  He thinks that may have something to do with the choice.

I pack up my purchases and make to leave.  We wish each other good evenings.

Friday 21 September 2012

Audrey

I ask the girl behind the counter if the haloumi and avocado on sourdough bread is a good choice.  She tells me that she doesn't think you can go wrong with haloumi.  The boy behind her, witha black t-shirt and blonde hair says, 'Haloumi makes the world a better place'.  I decide I better order it.

As I leave I ask the girl my question.  She is wearing high shorts over black tights and a loose-fitted polka-dot blouse.  Her hair is tied back and she is wearing glasses with an opaque orange rim.  '

After Hepburn?' I suggest.  'No, after my grandmother', she corrects.

Thursday 20 September 2012

Richard

Waiting for the lift in a converted tea factory with some friends, we are approached by a man a floppy grey parting.  His face is pointy and his voice is a bit like that of the actor Bill Nighy.  'Have you ever been anywhere like this before?' he says.  'It's like Andy Warhol's fucking art factory'.  He is wearing a bright blue anorak with white chinos over white loafers.  When speaking he holds his hand to his breastbone.  I ask if he knows any of the artists.  He nods and mumbles something uncommitted.  The lift arrives.

As the doors shut and over a crowd of faces I explain my resolution.  'Is it really?' he asks.  'Yes', I say.  The lift descends and I tell him that his middle is my first.  He asks for the rest of my name.  I tell him.  He talks of an industrial town south of London.  We reach the ground floor.

'What are you up to now?' he asks.  I say that I am probably heading home.  'I thought you might at least invite me for a drink', he says.  'I feel used'.  I apologise.  'I feel like a discarded fucking condom flung to the side when it's served its purpose'.  We are in the way of someone's photograph.  We move.  I tell him that I didn't mean to use him.  'Yeah well', he says.

I thank him for his help and move away.

Wednesday 19 September 2012

Amma

Buying fish-fingers and a trifle at the local supermarket the check-out assistant looks up at me in despair.   She is wearing a black fashion turban at the back of which emerges a long black ponytail.   Feeling empathetic, I ask if it has been a long day.  She nods sadly.  ‘You look as though you are about to cry’, I say.  ‘I wish I could’, she says.  ‘It might make me feel better’.  I wonder whether asking my question might cheer us both up.  So I do.

Her eyes show the hint of a sparkle.  ‘Do you want to know mine?’ she asks.  ‘Yes please’, I say.  It was chosen, apparently, because she was born on a Saturday.  We agree that it is a good day to be born.  I pack up my shopping and wish her a good evening.  ‘You too’, she says more cheerful than when we met.  ‘Have a good evening’.

Tuesday 18 September 2012

Jerome

In the pub and the football is over.  A man in sports-shorts and a t-shirt is returning to his table with beer.  At the table are several other men of the sporting variety.  Also in shorts, despite the obvious approach of autumn, I feel a certain camaraderie and approach the table with my question.

He puts the beer down.  He crosses his arms.  He tilts his head.  He gives me an answer.  His friends guffaw.  ‘That is a weird…’ he says, ‘weird resolution’.  I nod.  He nods back.  ‘But keep it up’.   I put my hand out in thanks.  He shakes it.

Monday 17 September 2012

Oketta

'Good exercise man', says the man sitting on a bench in the park as I jog past.  I have been doing stretches on the grass.  Next to the bench is a metal walker with a grey plastic handle.  He gives me two thumbs up.  'Thank you', I say jogging on.  Then, realising an opportunity, I circle and return.  He seems happy to provide me with an answer.

'I am originally from a country called Uganda', he tells me.  I say I have heard of it.  'But I have been here since 1988', he says, 'and I am now a British citizen'.  I ask if he is local.  He points to a house on the corner.  'It was given to me by the council of Lambeth', he says.

I thank him for his help and say it was nice to meet him  His two thumbs return to the upright position.  'God bless you too, man', he says as I pick up my pace.

Sunday 16 September 2012

Alfredo

Returning home without a middle name, the minutes are ticking down until midnight.  With the internet close at hand I decide, for the first time since 8th January, to delve into the world of internet chat-rooms.  This time I try chatroulette.  The screen in front of me flashes images until I find someone with whom I want to make contact.  There is a man with a headset grinning manically, a grainy face with glasses staring blankly and a man reclining on a sofa waiting for something.  The anonymity makes me nervous.  I do not turn on my webcam.  I find another blank screen and begin a conversation. 

Connected to somebody.
Location: Mexico

You: Hello
Partner: hi
You: this is a strange question
You: but I have a new years resolution to find someone's middle name every day this year
Partner: what
You: do you have a middle name
Partner: yeap
Partner: its alfred
You: that doesn't sound very mexican
Partner: alfredo
You: ah
Partner: i miss an o
You: where are you from in mexico?
Partner: sonora
You: i went to mexico when i was nineteen
Partner: how old are you?
You: i'm 32
Partner: good
You: yes. i think it is good. thank you.
Partner: :)
Partner: im 18
You: a good age too.
You: that really was my question. thank you for your help
Partner: yeah jsjs
You: i don't know what jsjs means
Partner: its like jaja
You: is that like haha?
Partner: ajam
You: nice to meet you, middle name alfredo, i hope you have a good day
Partner: thank you :)
Partner: nice to meet you too
You: do you say 'adios' in mexico or is that just
You: spain
Partner: we too say it
You: i thought so. adios y muchas gracias.
Partner: bye

Glad that it is over, I turn off my computer and go to bed.

Saturday 15 September 2012

John

'You've struck a sore point there', says the lady in the shop in a small village near the sea.  Outside is a blackboard on which was written 'WINE' and 'CHARCOAL'.  We are buying eggs, cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, muesli and yogurt.  All the hummus has been snappled by other wedding guests. 

'My mother didn't believe in long names', she says.  Her first name is a single syllable.  'She didn't want to give us names that could be shortened', she says.  'She didn't realise that you could lengthen them'.  She tells us that she has long regretted the fact that she wasn't given a middle name.  Today's, instead, belongs to her son ('What's it for?' asked her mother when she saw his birth certificate).

'You can't be an English cricketer without at least a few names', she says.  I tell her I'd never noticed that.  'Look it up', she says.

(Later, I google the English test squad that will face Pakistan in the United Arab Emirates.  I don't notice a huge propensity towards multiple names but most of them do, at least have one middle.  They are John, Nathan, Michael (x2), Ronald, Singh (x2), Thomas, Joseph Gerard, Peter (x2), James and Jonathan Leonard.  Stuart Broad and Graham Onions buck the trend and remain without.)

Friday 14 September 2012

Henry

A shot of jagermeister sits on the bar in front of me.  A fellow party-guest stands beside me.  I introduce myself.  He is wearing a white rugby shirt, has short-back-and-sides and works for the government.  His demeanour is hearty.

I have never tasted jagermeister before so ask him what it is like.  He compares it to an expensive and sweet mouthwash.  His middle name is after both of his grandfathers, neither of whom he knew.

From the other side of the bar a countdown commences.  We clink our shot glasses and down them on command.  His description is not inaccurate.

Thursday 13 September 2012

Stowen

A man at a bus shelter mumbles something about pennies as I pass.  I have a pound in my pocket and pause to get it out.  He is wearing a padded jacket and has cropped hair that is only marginally longer than his stubble.  His head is hung low and his eyes look up in my direction.  I explain my question.  He leans towards me to understand.

His answer is unclear and I ask if he could repeat it.  He spells it out for me.  I ask where it comes from.  He shrugs.  'Don't know', he says.  Worried that I have annoyed him, I begin to leave.  'Thank you', I say.  'I'm sorry...'  He looks at me.  'No, no, no', he says, 'thank you very much'.

Wednesday 12 September 2012

Leigh

Having failed to make use of the girl on the tube who talked to me about the book I was reading, television adaptations and San Francisco, I have to resort to the streets at night.

Over the road, lit by the phosphorescent bulb of a bus shelter, sit two girls in leggings with big blonde hair and heavy make-up.  I decide to try my chances.  The one on the left gives me an answer straight away.  I check the spelling.  She corrects me.  'It's that way for girls', she says.  'I didn't know that', I say.  'Well she's Jamie Lee like boy's spelling', she says gesturing towards her companion who nods an acknowledgment.

I ask if they are sisters.  'Nah', says the one on the right.  The other one giggles.  'Do you think we look like sisters?', she says.  I say they could be.

'Thank you for you help', I say.  'Bye then', they say.

Tuesday 11 September 2012

Anne

'Do you know anything about hoovers?' I ask the woman with braided hair.  Her earrings are long silver hoops that each clasp a different-coloured sphere. She is wheeling a trolley.  'No', she says.  'Oh, okay', I say.  'Only joking', she says, 'what do you want to know?'

We discuss the advantages and disadvantages of the low-budget range.  I end by choosing the smallest and the cheapest.  'I've got an expensive one 'cos I love animals', she says.  'But if you've just got a wooden floor I'm sure that'll be fine'.  We take it to the till.

She looks at me with suspicion as I explain my resolution.  'Will you tell me yours?' I ask.  'No', she says.  I look dismayed.  'What's yours?' she asks.  I tell her.  'If I tell you my first name, you have to guess it', she says.  I agree to the terms.  Her first name is Beverly.  I guess 'Marie' and 'Joy'.  'No', she says, 'it goes'.  In desperation I try 'Knight'.  'That's my last name', she says.  It is my turn to look suspicious.

She loses patience and gives me an answer.  'It goes, see', she says, 'like Sue-Ann'.  I ask if she spells it with or without an 'e'.  'I've never found out', she says, 'but I like to put an 'e' on 'cos it's a bit more fancy'.  She suddenly becomes loquacious.  'I could give you forty-nine middle names if you wanted', she says.  She explains that there are forty-nine members of her family not including first cousins.  'My nephew's got twenty-seven names', she says.  I say that sounds like a lot.  'We're a family of Rastas', she says, 'they like their names'.  I ask if he can remember then all.  'I don't think he cares', she says.

She puts some security tape on the box and tells me not to lose my receipt.  We wish each other good afternoons.

Monday 10 September 2012

Diamond

My body clock is awry and I am not sure I can muster the energy to find a stranger.  Instead I look up the origins of the term 'jet lag'. 

The first known use was by the travel writer Horace Sutton in the Los Angeles Times on 13th February 1966.  He wrote, 'If you're going to be a member of the Jet Set and fly off to Katmandu for coffee with King Mahendra you can count on contracting Jet Lag, a debility not unakin to a hangover. Jet Lag derives from the simple fact that jets travel so fast they leave your body rhythms behind'.

With my body rhythms left on another continent I am dismayed to find that google does not provide a middle name for the author of my syndrome.  Oddly, it does provide one for his second wife.

Sunday 9 September 2012

Lloyd

Waiting for the toilet in a contained environment at a high altitude I ask my question to the man in front of me.  He is wearing a smart blue shirt with the top button undone.  His hair is grey and he looks wryly amused.  'Why don't you tell me yours?' he says.  I do.  He offers his in exchange.  'It's of Welsh descent', he says.  He tells me he has been leading a tour in America for a group of 'mature adults'.  He used to be a school teacher but has recently retired and takes these trips in his Summer holidays.  'They start you off in Europe', he says of his employers, 'and as they trust you they let you further afield'.  This trip involved traveling the breadth of the country.

'We get some real English eccentrics', he says of his groups.  'It makes it for me'.

A toilet becomes vacant.  We say our goodbyes.

Saturday 8 September 2012

Lin, Lee and Louise

Back on the strip mall, this time in a Mexican restaurant, and there is a rowdy group of women on the adjacent table.  They are taking photos of each other on an i-phone.  I offer to take one of the group.  They are three sisters and a mother.  The phone has a gold sequined case.

They get up from the table and stand in line.  The mother, with grey hair, is unwilling but coaxed into it by her daughters.  They are blonde.  I take several photographs and then ask for a middle name in return.

'Ours is an interesting story', says the eldest daughter.  'There are seven of us and all our middle names begin with the same initial'.  She gives me the list.  It also features a Lloyd and a Lynette.  'How am I going to remember all of those?', I ask.  'You're not', she replies.  She is right.  I concentrate on the three in front of me.  The youngest daughter complains that she got landed with the worst. 

The mother tells us that their father wanted all his children to have the same initials as himself.  As a result all of their first names begin with 'R' and their middle names with 'L'.  'He was a rancher', she says by way of explanation.

'They're Mormons', says the eldest pointing at her mother and middle sister whose dress has a high neckline.  'I bet you've never met one of those before'.  I ask why she isn't.  'I ran', she says in a hushed tone, demonstrating the action with a gesture.  The others begin to leave.  She comes back to our table.  'Seriously', she says, 'it's crazy'.  I nod.  'As soon as I was twenty-one, I just ran', she repeats.  Leaving our table, she returns once more.  'Even if you're a Republican don't vote for Mick Romney', she says.  I tell her I won't.

Friday 7 September 2012

Elaine

A Japanese restaurant on the strip mall of a small town and the waitress, who has been serving us patiently, gives us our check.  Her dark hair is tied back.  A smile creeps across her face as I ask my question.  Her mother (despite the lack of any oriental heritage) wanted to give her the middle-name of a Japanese perfume brand.  Her older brother objected and her mother changed her plans.

She tells me she doesn't mind but that it doesn't go well with her others.  'Not like those people who have movie-star sounding names', she says.  Her initials spell 'EEC'.

Thursday 6 September 2012

Frank Trevor

In a Spanish bar there are pinatas of different shapes and sizes hanging from the ceiling.  A small man with a guitar and high shoulders sings as he wanders amongst the tables.  Whilst tipping him, I attempt to ask my question but neither his English nor my Spanish is sufficiently up-to-scratch.

Instead I ask the doorman on the way out.  He wears a camel-coloured corduroy jacket and has dark hair that flops over his forehead.  He is pleased to be able to give me two.  The first is after his godfather and the second because his mum liked it.

'Will that do for two days?' he asks.  I tell him that's against the rules but thank him for his help.

Wednesday 5 September 2012

* (asterisk)

'Look at that rainbow, man', says a man standing on the corner of the street.  He is wearing a leather jacket with black jeans and smart shoes.  His hair is dark.  I look.  There is an impressive arched rainbow in the sky.  'It's been ages since I saw a double one', he says.

Realising that at the end of the rainbow might be a middle name, I ask my question.  'I don't have one, man', he says.  'I made one up though'.  He explains his original choice.  'I just chose it to be annoying', he says.  He tells me his has been to England once on a date; 'Just to go to a music festival, drop acid and stuff', he says.

He asks what I have seen in the city.  'You gotta go to Dolores Park', he says.  'It's where people go chill out, play music, get high and stuff', he says.  He also recommends a tea shop ('You drink tea, right?') where you can get a really good cup of black tea for ten dollars.  I tell him that I prefer PG Tips.

Tuesday 4 September 2012

Nicole

It is late and I approach a group of strangers in the street.  I apologise for the interruption and explain myself.  The girl standing closest to me with a red coat and matching lipstick gives me an answer.  I put out my hand as a gesture of thanks.  She shakes it.  I leave them to it.

Monday 3 September 2012

Lorraine

At breakfast I the dining car I am sat opposite a middle-aged couple from Pittsburgh.  The strap of her handbag remains over her shoulder throughout the meal.  He wears a baseball cap.  They are crossing the country to visit their daughter.  On the train for the same amount of time as me, they have invested in a sleeper cabin.

We eat eggs, croissants and as much coffee as we can drink.  We discuss Sierra Nevada, the London Olympics, Andy Warhol and Worthing.

Ten hours later, at our destination, I bump into the lady on the platform.  She is still wearing her handbag.  We congratulate each other on our powers of endurance.  I explain my resolution.  She gives me an answer.

'At least that saves you approaching a stranger on the street today', she says.  I agree.

Sunday 2 September 2012

Dee

Twenty-nine hours into a train journey, I sit in the observation car with a small can of Budweiser and watch as the desert passes by.  A girl on an adjacent seat asks if I know where we are.  I don't but we strike up a conversation.  She is the daughter of a horse farmer from Kentucky and we are headed for the same destination.

We get another drink, some nuts and hummus and talk about America.  We move onto the question of international relations, the stranglehold of capitalism and her brother's engagement to a girl who treats him badly.  At a city famous for Mormons, we take a walk along the platform and enjoy some fresh air.

The desert turns to black, the snack bar closes and we head back to our seats to attempt some sleep.

Saturday 1 September 2012

Khosro

Having left plenty of time, I find myself wandering the streets in danger of missing my train.  It is beginning to rain.  I hail a cab.  'Union station?', I say.  'Of course', the driver replies.  I pile my bags into the back.

'I got lost', I say.  'I don't know where I am'.  The driver shakes his head.  'You should never say that to me', he says.  'I'll take you for a ride'.  He is tanned with grey hair.  'Please don't take me for a ride', I say.  He laughs.  'Of course I would never do that', he says.

Originally from 'Persian Iran', he moved to America twenty-one years ago.  I ask if he likes Chicago.  'I like it for holidays', he says, 'but when you have to make money no place is fun anymore'.

We approach the station.  It is not far.  'I drop you at the back so I don't have to do any monkey business', he says.  I agree that monkey business doesn't sound like a good idea.

As I pay, I ask my question.  'Ken', he says.  'That doesn't sound very Iranian', I say.  'Ah', he replies, 'you don't want to know my real middle name'.  I assure him that I do.  He gives me an answer and I repeat after him.  He corrects my pronunciation and gives me a spelling.  'He was a king', he says.  'Look him up'.

(I do look him up and the closest that the internet provides is Kai Kosrow, a legendary king from the Persian epic, Shahnameh.  His father was killed by his maternal grandmother and, as a child, he was trained in the desert by a wise vizier.  A popular king, he was not fond of the trappings of monarchy and gave much of his wealth away to widows, orphans, the sick and poor.  To his successor he offered the advice, 'Lohrasb! The King is like the water and can clean the things but if itself becomes embarrassed then nothing could become clean!')