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.