Peter

An evening of poetry reading in South-West London.  The organiser is a squat man of certain years.  He is wearing a jacket, waistcoat and tie.  On his head is a black beanie decorated with three badges.  Dishevelled hair emerges from the sides and back.  His beard is long and grey and his footwear is an incongruous pair of black moon-boots.  His own poems are inspired by the Japanese tradition.  He is steadily loquatious.

At the end of the evening I approach the table where he is drinking a pint to ask his middle name.  'Ah, that's an interesting story', he says.  I am not wholly surprised.  He tells me that the people in his life divide into three categories: the majority who know him by the name by which he introduced himself ('A nom-de-plume?' I ask.  'Sort of', he replies), his family who know him by his given name and the minority who know him by both.  His middle name comes from the name that is used only by his family.  'If I tell you, you'll have to be sworn to absolute secrecy', he says.  I nod seriously.  'Not really', he adds.