A small labrador shows an interest in my friend's shoes as we walk past. It is eleven weeks old and looks as though it should be advertising toilet roll. It scratches at a new red collar to which it is yet to grow accustomed.
The owner, a tall man with dark hair, is friendly but doesn't have a middle name ('In Greece we don't really go in for them', he says). Nor does the dog. 'But my wife might', he suggests. A shorter woman walks up behind us. She is wearing a gold-coloured padded jacket. She has long hair, the top of which is covered in a green and grey beanie. 'This man is looking for a strange middle name everyday', says her husband.
The wife throws her hands in the air. 'I've got two', she says with enthusiasm. She is from Brazil. She explains that the first comes from her mother and the second from her father. 'Like Antonio Banderas', she says, 'My cousin'. 'Really?' I ask. 'Not really'. She laughs, touching my arm.
They ask our names and we all shake hands. The puppy and the shoes part company.
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