With five minutes to spare before my bus arrives, the evening is cold and I decide to seek a middle name in the foyer of a long-running West End musical. A sickly green light glows against the walls. Behind the concession stand are two men wearing grey hoodies with green zips. One has a quiff of curly hair and a stud in the top of his left ear. The other's hair is clipped short and he holds a walkie-talkie.
I ask them my question. 'I've got two', says the quiffed assistant with enthusiasm. He gives me two answers. 'Do you want to know mine?' asks the other. 'Why not?' I reply. They ask for my reasoning behind the resolution. Aware of my bus, i mumble something about feeling like it. 'Seriously, though', says the curly quiff. 'Why?' I talk about the alienation of the city, challenging perceptions and pushing out of the comfort zone. They are enjoying our chat.
They ask my middle name ('Is your first name Flushing?' one suggests). They ask what percentage of people don't have middle names ('About fifteen percent', I suggest). They ask whether it has changed my life.
They want to know the most unusual middle name I've had. I tell them that I'm not sure but that, together, theirs are probably the most generic. They nod.
Eventually I make my excuses and go back out into the cold. I see my bus drawing away from the stop.
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