Lin

Buying my first mulled wine of the season, the lady behind the stall has a white fringe.  We are near the river.  'It smells good', I say.  'I'm immune', she replies.  'All I can smell is burnt'.

I take this festive marker as an opportunity.  'I'm actually called by my middle name', she tells me.  Her first name is Margaret, like her mother's and her grandmother's.  She needed a means of distinguishing herself.  She has come to London by way of Norway and Scotland.

'I had a friend at school who had a double-barreled surname', she says.  'So she used to say that her middle name was dash'.  We laugh.