Fabian

A long day and little time for human interaction, I remember, with relief, a text message service to which you can ask any question.  I text, 'What is your middle name?' to 118118.  I look forward to the response.  Two minutes later I receive the reply, 'We're very sorry, but every day we get a few questions we can't answer.  This is one of them.  No charge'.

Instead my German flatmate offers up any member of his family.  I chose his brother who made up his middle name because he thought it sounded cool.  'He is very self-aware', says my flatmate. 'No, perhaps that is the wrong translation'.  A pause.  'He is very self-centred my brother, yes, self-centred'.

Alex

A large black man mutters something that I don't understand as I open the door of my block while my friend wheels out her bicycle.  He is wearing an old baseball cap with the letters 'KA' (the name of a popular Caribbean fruit punch drink) and an over-sized shirt.  He has a greying beard and a pair of beige-rimmed glasses that sit on his nose at an angle.  I look confused.  He laughs from his belly.  'He doesn't get the drift', he says pointing at me and doubling over.  His laugh is infectious.  He says some more things that I find difficult to grasp.  I am evidently missing the joke.  He waves me away and we begin to walk in opposite directions until I decide to trun back and ask my question.

'I don't use it', he says, standing upright.  'But does it exist?' I ask, mirroring his posture.  'Yes', he says with suspicion.  I don't give up.  'Can you tell me it?'  He squints.  'It begins with 'A'', he says.  I begin guessing.  'Anthony?'  I suggest.  He shakes his head.  'Adrian?'  My friend pipes up, 'Adam?'  We don't seem to be close.  I ask for another letter.  He gives me 'L'.  'Allington?' I try, perhaps thinking of middle names past.  'Alfred?' my friend suggests more plausibly.  He gives us a clue.  'He's a famous saint - he did stuff in countries'.  I ask for another letter.  I get 'E'.  'Alessandro', I try (I'm not sure why).  My friend finally hits the jackpot.  He laughs and grabs my hand.  'My first name's St David', he says.

Using me as leverage he aims towards my friend.  He asks for her middle name and tells her it's a beautiful name.  He then asks my name.  'Richard', I tell him.  He throws his head back.  'That's a dodgy one', he laughs.  Tears are rolling down his cheeks.  'What's your middle name?'  I tell him.  'Fuck off!' he roars.  We begin our jovial goodbyes.  'You've got a great butt', he tells my friend through chortles as we walk away.

Jason

In a corner shop buying  bottle of wine, I ask the man behind the counter who wears a beige beanie with a dark fringe poking out at the front.  He has difficulty understanding my question.  I try to rephrase it as a man with a baggy grey tracksuit and a restless manner comes in to make a purchase.  'My name's Jason', he says handing over the money.  'Is that your middle name?' I confirm.  'Yeh', he says.  He turns his back and waves an arm in the air.  'Write it down'. 

Dryden

Paying the bill in a Thai restaurant, I lean over to ask the two grey-haired gentlemen sitting at the adjacent table with their younger international female companions.  One's locks are curly, the other's floppy.  They eye me with machismic suspicion.  'He's got an interesting one', says the curly-haired gentleman, deflecting the question.  The floppy-haired gentleman stands up and puts on his tweed jacket.  'You look like a studious chap', he says, 'Think of a poet'.  I take the challenge.  'Chaucer?' I suggest.  He shakes his head.  I try to think through the cannon.  'Byron?  Shelley?  Dylan Thomas?'  'You're getting closer', he says, 'he liked a bar wrestle'.  'Marlowe?'  I try in desperation.  'Dryden', he tells me, 'A relation.  He's in the family tree'.  I look suitably impressed.  'My son has it too'.  I ask to be reminded of one of his most famous poems.  'No idea', comes the reply.

The gentleman accompany their lady friends to the door.

(I got out my edition of John Dryden from university.  It is not very well-thumbed.  My highlighter seems to have paid most attention to An Essay of Dramatic Poesy.  Perhaps one day I will read his lesser known comedy, The Assignation, or Love in  Nunnery.) 

Robert and de Pfeffel

The two middle names battling it out to be mayor of London.  One was born in his grandmother's house in Lambeth, the other is a descendant of King George II.

Adrian

Leaving a pub in central London, I approach the barman who told us we had ten minutes to drink up eight minutes ago.  He has a black apron with badges, curly dark hair and a light sprinkling of stubble on his chin and upper lip.  I ask my question.  He stares straight back at me.  'I'm sorry', I say, 'You look as though I've made you angry'.  'No', he replies, 'I'm just... umm...', he pauses, 'shocked'.  I mumble something about it being a bit strange.  'It's Adrian', he tells me and puts a chair on the table.  'Thank you', I say.  He nods.

Ken

Opening my front door in my jogging attire, I notice a small Chinese lady hovering next to me.  'I live here', she says.  She has a neatly cropped boyish haircut in grey and is carrying two plastic bags from the Chinese supermarket.  'It's very stiff', she says gesturing to the lock.  I agree.  I ask how long she has lived here.  She tells me that she has been here for about a month.  I ask if she likes it.  'Not particularly', she replies.  Her Chinese accent is strong.

When I ask her name she tells me that her husband's name is 'Chen'.  On second asking she gives me hers.  'And your middle name?' I ask.  She gives me an answer without questioning my motive.  We agree that it has been nice to meet each other and I leave her at the bottom of the stairs.