The young child who watches me drink my coffee in the over-priced cafe of a bookshop doesn't have one. His mother is Spanish and wanted to keep things simple. Nor does the man standing in the cold by the Royal Festival hall with a walkie-talkie.
Instead, walking home past the new local, I pause to ask two smokers if they have a middle name to spare. 'That's fantastic', says the man who is standing by a picnic table. 'I love it'. His long hair is wavy. He leans forward with enthusiasm. His companion (who is seated at the picnic table and has a dark fringe) smiles broadly. 'Does that mean you are going to have three-hundred and sixty-five middle names by the end of the year?', he asks. 'I hope so', I reply.
He gladly gives me an answer. I tell him that he is the first of that name I've had this year. He is pleased. I forget to ask how it is spelt.
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