Mary

Outside the ruins of a Welsh castle, a lady sits in a makeshift cabin selling tickets and memorabilia.  Her hair is a big bouffant of blonde and her face dwarfed in comparison.  Her skin is like crepe paper.

She recoils in what seems like horror at my question.  'I'm sorry', I say.  'I didn't mean to upset you'.  She shakes her head.  'No, no', she says.  'I've just never been asked something like that before'.  She thinks for a moment.  'You have a different one everyday?' she asks.  'Yes', I say.

She makes a suggestion.  'Jacob', she says.  I am confused.  'Is that your middle name?' I ask.  She is also confused.  'Oh.  You want to know my middle name', she says.  'Yes please', I say.  We are on the same page.  She gives me an answer.

I thank her for her help.  'Enjoy your visit', she says.

(The reaction of today's middle name reassures me that, even if hackneyed in South-East London, Kevin, the trend is yet to reach the depths of the countryside in South Wales.)