Henry

A shot of jagermeister sits on the bar in front of me.  A fellow party-guest stands beside me.  I introduce myself.  He is wearing a white rugby shirt, has short-back-and-sides and works for the government.  His demeanour is hearty.

I have never tasted jagermeister before so ask him what it is like.  He compares it to an expensive and sweet mouthwash.  His middle name is after both of his grandfathers, neither of whom he knew.

From the other side of the bar a countdown commences.  We clink our shot glasses and down them on command.  His description is not inaccurate.

Stowen

A man at a bus shelter mumbles something about pennies as I pass.  I have a pound in my pocket and pause to get it out.  He is wearing a padded jacket and has cropped hair that is only marginally longer than his stubble.  His head is hung low and his eyes look up in my direction.  I explain my question.  He leans towards me to understand.

His answer is unclear and I ask if he could repeat it.  He spells it out for me.  I ask where it comes from.  He shrugs.  'Don't know', he says.  Worried that I have annoyed him, I begin to leave.  'Thank you', I say.  'I'm sorry...'  He looks at me.  'No, no, no', he says, 'thank you very much'.

Leigh

Having failed to make use of the girl on the tube who talked to me about the book I was reading, television adaptations and San Francisco, I have to resort to the streets at night.

Over the road, lit by the phosphorescent bulb of a bus shelter, sit two girls in leggings with big blonde hair and heavy make-up.  I decide to try my chances.  The one on the left gives me an answer straight away.  I check the spelling.  She corrects me.  'It's that way for girls', she says.  'I didn't know that', I say.  'Well she's Jamie Lee like boy's spelling', she says gesturing towards her companion who nods an acknowledgment.

I ask if they are sisters.  'Nah', says the one on the right.  The other one giggles.  'Do you think we look like sisters?', she says.  I say they could be.

'Thank you for you help', I say.  'Bye then', they say.

Anne

'Do you know anything about hoovers?' I ask the woman with braided hair.  Her earrings are long silver hoops that each clasp a different-coloured sphere. She is wheeling a trolley.  'No', she says.  'Oh, okay', I say.  'Only joking', she says, 'what do you want to know?'

We discuss the advantages and disadvantages of the low-budget range.  I end by choosing the smallest and the cheapest.  'I've got an expensive one 'cos I love animals', she says.  'But if you've just got a wooden floor I'm sure that'll be fine'.  We take it to the till.

She looks at me with suspicion as I explain my resolution.  'Will you tell me yours?' I ask.  'No', she says.  I look dismayed.  'What's yours?' she asks.  I tell her.  'If I tell you my first name, you have to guess it', she says.  I agree to the terms.  Her first name is Beverly.  I guess 'Marie' and 'Joy'.  'No', she says, 'it goes'.  In desperation I try 'Knight'.  'That's my last name', she says.  It is my turn to look suspicious.

She loses patience and gives me an answer.  'It goes, see', she says, 'like Sue-Ann'.  I ask if she spells it with or without an 'e'.  'I've never found out', she says, 'but I like to put an 'e' on 'cos it's a bit more fancy'.  She suddenly becomes loquacious.  'I could give you forty-nine middle names if you wanted', she says.  She explains that there are forty-nine members of her family not including first cousins.  'My nephew's got twenty-seven names', she says.  I say that sounds like a lot.  'We're a family of Rastas', she says, 'they like their names'.  I ask if he can remember then all.  'I don't think he cares', she says.

She puts some security tape on the box and tells me not to lose my receipt.  We wish each other good afternoons.

Diamond

My body clock is awry and I am not sure I can muster the energy to find a stranger.  Instead I look up the origins of the term 'jet lag'. 

The first known use was by the travel writer Horace Sutton in the Los Angeles Times on 13th February 1966.  He wrote, 'If you're going to be a member of the Jet Set and fly off to Katmandu for coffee with King Mahendra you can count on contracting Jet Lag, a debility not unakin to a hangover. Jet Lag derives from the simple fact that jets travel so fast they leave your body rhythms behind'.

With my body rhythms left on another continent I am dismayed to find that google does not provide a middle name for the author of my syndrome.  Oddly, it does provide one for his second wife.

Lloyd

Waiting for the toilet in a contained environment at a high altitude I ask my question to the man in front of me.  He is wearing a smart blue shirt with the top button undone.  His hair is grey and he looks wryly amused.  'Why don't you tell me yours?' he says.  I do.  He offers his in exchange.  'It's of Welsh descent', he says.  He tells me he has been leading a tour in America for a group of 'mature adults'.  He used to be a school teacher but has recently retired and takes these trips in his Summer holidays.  'They start you off in Europe', he says of his employers, 'and as they trust you they let you further afield'.  This trip involved traveling the breadth of the country.

'We get some real English eccentrics', he says of his groups.  'It makes it for me'.

A toilet becomes vacant.  We say our goodbyes.

Lin, Lee and Louise

Back on the strip mall, this time in a Mexican restaurant, and there is a rowdy group of women on the adjacent table.  They are taking photos of each other on an i-phone.  I offer to take one of the group.  They are three sisters and a mother.  The phone has a gold sequined case.

They get up from the table and stand in line.  The mother, with grey hair, is unwilling but coaxed into it by her daughters.  They are blonde.  I take several photographs and then ask for a middle name in return.

'Ours is an interesting story', says the eldest daughter.  'There are seven of us and all our middle names begin with the same initial'.  She gives me the list.  It also features a Lloyd and a Lynette.  'How am I going to remember all of those?', I ask.  'You're not', she replies.  She is right.  I concentrate on the three in front of me.  The youngest daughter complains that she got landed with the worst. 

The mother tells us that their father wanted all his children to have the same initials as himself.  As a result all of their first names begin with 'R' and their middle names with 'L'.  'He was a rancher', she says by way of explanation.

'They're Mormons', says the eldest pointing at her mother and middle sister whose dress has a high neckline.  'I bet you've never met one of those before'.  I ask why she isn't.  'I ran', she says in a hushed tone, demonstrating the action with a gesture.  The others begin to leave.  She comes back to our table.  'Seriously', she says, 'it's crazy'.  I nod.  'As soon as I was twenty-one, I just ran', she repeats.  Leaving our table, she returns once more.  'Even if you're a Republican don't vote for Mick Romney', she says.  I tell her I won't.