Leaving an album launch in South London, I interrupt some goodbyes to ask the lady who had taken my money at the door. She has a perpendicular fringe and her hair is cut into a straight line at her shoulder. It sways as she answers, 'I don't have one'. Disaster looms but a bald man with glasses (her husband) steps into the breech and gives me what I need. 'Do you want to know the reason for it?' he asks before thinking, 'Oh no, that's my first name'.
'I should have had a middle name', says the original object of my request. She is eager to help and tells me the name that her mother had chosen; 'But my dad was drunk when he filled out the form and he forgot to write it down', she says.
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