'I'm just laughing at something funny that I have remembered', says the woman behind the kiosk where I am buying a stick of chewing gum. She has braided hair and cannot stop chuckling. On her platform she stands at least half a metre taller than me.
I explain my resolution. Between giggles she gives me an answer. 'It means God has given me', she says.
Sunday, 7 October 2012
Saturday, 6 October 2012
Kuldip Singh
'Do I look sartorial?' says the man in the bookshop. He has voluminous white hair and gestures towards a moth-eaten cardigan. He doesn't have an opinion about the book I am buying as a present about Coco Chanel. Nor does he have a middle name.
Instead, at the party for which the present was bought, I ask the husband of a friend of the birthday girl who, we find out, was two years below me at school. We don't remember each other. He is now a musician and owns four cats. We talk of red blazers, Mr Beard and the peculiarity of a single-sex education.
Instead, at the party for which the present was bought, I ask the husband of a friend of the birthday girl who, we find out, was two years below me at school. We don't remember each other. He is now a musician and owns four cats. We talk of red blazers, Mr Beard and the peculiarity of a single-sex education.
Friday, 5 October 2012
Joy
In a cafe that serves chips double-fried in dripping, I notice the actress who made me laugh on Saturday 7th July. On the way out, I pause to tell her how much I like her work. I don't tell her I know her middle name.
Later, at a birthday supper, I meet a cellist with curly hair. Her maiden name was Payne which means that her parents were making good use of oxymoron.
Later, at a birthday supper, I meet a cellist with curly hair. Her maiden name was Payne which means that her parents were making good use of oxymoron.
Thursday, 4 October 2012
Bridget
A man is playing Elvis Presley Songs as I enjoy the sunshine by the river. A few metres away, underneath the bright blue sky, two middle-aged women are jiving.
As I get up to leave I approach to tell them how much I appreciated their dance. One has vibrantly dark hair and a tailored jacket. The other's hair is slightly disheveled and she has on a soft jumper. They tell me that they were brought up nearby. They are sisters.
Visiting from Paris, the dark-haired sister explains that they have come on a day-trip to visit the place where the other sister (with the soft jumper) met her husband forty-five years ago. A white-haired man with a walking stick ambles over. 'Have you told him why we're here?' he asks. They say that it is reminiscent except that, then, there was a mist.
I take the opportunity to ask my question. 'Oh, you're going to love mine', says the dark-haired sister. 'You're going to love hers', repeats the other. 'What's that film?' says the first. 'The Romance. With that actor'. I have to admit that I am none-the-wiser. 'English', she says. 'All the girls swoon over him'. I'm still finding it hard to guess. 'Got caught with his pants down'. 'Hugh Grant?' I suggest. I am right. She continues, 'The girl he's with in that film'. The white-haired gentleman pipes up. 'Andie MacDowell', is his idea. 'No. She's got body issues', she says indicating size. I suggest the famous diarist of the late 1990s. 'That's it', she says. we are all pleased.
'Her first name's Mary', says the other sister with the soft jumper. 'So in Paris they call her Marie-Brigitte'.
We talk of Paris, the markets and the cobbled street on which I used to live but I need to get going and thank them for their help. 'No. Thank you for coming over', the visiting sister replies.
As I get up to leave I approach to tell them how much I appreciated their dance. One has vibrantly dark hair and a tailored jacket. The other's hair is slightly disheveled and she has on a soft jumper. They tell me that they were brought up nearby. They are sisters.
Visiting from Paris, the dark-haired sister explains that they have come on a day-trip to visit the place where the other sister (with the soft jumper) met her husband forty-five years ago. A white-haired man with a walking stick ambles over. 'Have you told him why we're here?' he asks. They say that it is reminiscent except that, then, there was a mist.
I take the opportunity to ask my question. 'Oh, you're going to love mine', says the dark-haired sister. 'You're going to love hers', repeats the other. 'What's that film?' says the first. 'The Romance. With that actor'. I have to admit that I am none-the-wiser. 'English', she says. 'All the girls swoon over him'. I'm still finding it hard to guess. 'Got caught with his pants down'. 'Hugh Grant?' I suggest. I am right. She continues, 'The girl he's with in that film'. The white-haired gentleman pipes up. 'Andie MacDowell', is his idea. 'No. She's got body issues', she says indicating size. I suggest the famous diarist of the late 1990s. 'That's it', she says. we are all pleased.
'Her first name's Mary', says the other sister with the soft jumper. 'So in Paris they call her Marie-Brigitte'.
We talk of Paris, the markets and the cobbled street on which I used to live but I need to get going and thank them for their help. 'No. Thank you for coming over', the visiting sister replies.
Wednesday, 3 October 2012
Angela
The two Koreans who ask me for directions to Harrods don't have middle names.
Instead, in a less salubrious part of town on the way home, I ask a woman sitting on a bench outside a pub. She is smoking a roll-up. 'Sorry', she says in an eastern-European accent. 'You help me... Resolution?' Her hair is long and blonde-ish. She is wearing a long multi-coloured woolen coat. When she brings the cigarette to her mouth I notice her nails are painted sky blue. I explain myself again. She gives me an answer.
'It's from Serbia', she says. 'But...' She shrugs and puts out her hand. 'What's your name?' she asks. I shake it. 'I'm Richard', I say. 'No. Your middle name', she says. I tell her. 'That's nice', she says making a gesture of space. 'It's expansive'.
At the other end of the bench sits a man with a flat cap, thick glasses and bright yellow trainers. I have interrupted their conversation. 'Thank you', I say. 'Sorry for the interruption'. Her roll-up has gone out. 'No, no', she says looking for her lighter. 'It's a pleasure'.
Instead, in a less salubrious part of town on the way home, I ask a woman sitting on a bench outside a pub. She is smoking a roll-up. 'Sorry', she says in an eastern-European accent. 'You help me... Resolution?' Her hair is long and blonde-ish. She is wearing a long multi-coloured woolen coat. When she brings the cigarette to her mouth I notice her nails are painted sky blue. I explain myself again. She gives me an answer.
'It's from Serbia', she says. 'But...' She shrugs and puts out her hand. 'What's your name?' she asks. I shake it. 'I'm Richard', I say. 'No. Your middle name', she says. I tell her. 'That's nice', she says making a gesture of space. 'It's expansive'.
At the other end of the bench sits a man with a flat cap, thick glasses and bright yellow trainers. I have interrupted their conversation. 'Thank you', I say. 'Sorry for the interruption'. Her roll-up has gone out. 'No, no', she says looking for her lighter. 'It's a pleasure'.
Tuesday, 2 October 2012
Amma Korkor
'I thought I recognised your face', says the check-out assistant in my local supermarket. I asked if she remembered refusing me a middle name twice in February (1st February, 10th February). Her hair is now a short, tight afro. I decide to try again.
'Why do you want to know anyway?' she asks smiling. I explain. 'What's yours?' she asks. I tell her. 'Mine's African', she says. I can feel her weakening. She tells me the second part first. 'It means the second-born girl', she says and spells it out for me. 'The other one's easier for you', she says. 'It means born on a Saturday'. I tell her that she has a colleague with the same middle name (Amma).
'A man born on a Saturday is called Kwame', she tells me. I ask if there is a name for each day of the week. She says there is. 'Kofi, like Kofi Annan, means born on a Friday', she says. 'I can tell you them all'. But my transaction has gone through. 'Next time you come in', she says. I wish her a good afternoon. 'See you soon', she says.
(Wikipedia tells me that most Ghanaians have at least one name that is based on the day of the week that they were born. The characteristics of Saturday's child are that they 'like to take control of family situations. He/she runs the show and make the rules, but will go out of his/her way for others any time'. I was born on a Tuesday. Somewhat unexcitingly my characteristics are as 'the problem solver and planner of the family ... structured in nature, neutral in all matters and never takes sides'.)
'Why do you want to know anyway?' she asks smiling. I explain. 'What's yours?' she asks. I tell her. 'Mine's African', she says. I can feel her weakening. She tells me the second part first. 'It means the second-born girl', she says and spells it out for me. 'The other one's easier for you', she says. 'It means born on a Saturday'. I tell her that she has a colleague with the same middle name (Amma).
'A man born on a Saturday is called Kwame', she tells me. I ask if there is a name for each day of the week. She says there is. 'Kofi, like Kofi Annan, means born on a Friday', she says. 'I can tell you them all'. But my transaction has gone through. 'Next time you come in', she says. I wish her a good afternoon. 'See you soon', she says.
(Wikipedia tells me that most Ghanaians have at least one name that is based on the day of the week that they were born. The characteristics of Saturday's child are that they 'like to take control of family situations. He/she runs the show and make the rules, but will go out of his/her way for others any time'. I was born on a Tuesday. Somewhat unexcitingly my characteristics are as 'the problem solver and planner of the family ... structured in nature, neutral in all matters and never takes sides'.)
Monday, 1 October 2012
Peyote Opi Merlin
Heading towards a spare seat at the back of a double-decker bus, I hesitate. The back row is occupied by two young men with closely-shaved hair. Between them sits a large black-and-white dog with a snub nose. Its genitalia are proudly on display. It is breathing loudly. 'I wouldn't sit there if I were you', says the younger of the two. The other is slumped against the window, apparently asleep, with his eyes closed. 'Oh', I say and begin to turn around. 'Jokes', says the man. 'Go ahead'. I look at the dog. It looks at me. 'Don't make it weird', he says. I sit down.
'What's he called?' I ask. The younger man points at the one against the window. 'Ask 'im', he says. Without moving, he opens his eyes. 'Woof', he says. 'Oh right', I say.
The younger man takes a loud phone call. His conversation involves the police, phone numbers and someone called 'Angel'. The dog's breath smells.
'That's what happens if you like girls', he tells me after he has hung up. 'You get yourself into trouble'. I decide to ask my question. He laughs. 'Fuckin' crazy maniac bastard solid real...' he begins. The slumped man opens his eyes again, his interest piqued. He gives me his.
'It's the nickname for a hallucinogenic cactus', he says. 'My parents were hippies'. He gestures towards the dog. 'It's his name too', he says. 'I like it so I called him it'. He tells me all three of his middle names. 'Where's Opi from?' I ask. He smiles. 'Opium', he says. He tells me his sister's middle name is Astra Cloudberry. I am suitably impressed. The younger man interrupts. 'I don't have one', he says. 'You parents weren't hippies?' I ask. 'We're brothers', says the man still slumped against the window. 'But the man she was with when she had him weren't into that sort of stuff'. The younger man kisses the dog. 'My name's Bob', he says.
They try to guess my middle name. 'Sid', the younger one suggests, 'as in C.I.D.'. 'Gap', suggests the other. I look confused. The younger explains, 'Gay and proud'. I give them the answer. The younger one repeats it out loud. 'It's alright that is', he says.
It's my stop so I get up to leave. 'Nice to meet you', I say. The slumped man nods his head. 'You take care now', says the other.
'What's he called?' I ask. The younger man points at the one against the window. 'Ask 'im', he says. Without moving, he opens his eyes. 'Woof', he says. 'Oh right', I say.
The younger man takes a loud phone call. His conversation involves the police, phone numbers and someone called 'Angel'. The dog's breath smells.
'That's what happens if you like girls', he tells me after he has hung up. 'You get yourself into trouble'. I decide to ask my question. He laughs. 'Fuckin' crazy maniac bastard solid real...' he begins. The slumped man opens his eyes again, his interest piqued. He gives me his.
'It's the nickname for a hallucinogenic cactus', he says. 'My parents were hippies'. He gestures towards the dog. 'It's his name too', he says. 'I like it so I called him it'. He tells me all three of his middle names. 'Where's Opi from?' I ask. He smiles. 'Opium', he says. He tells me his sister's middle name is Astra Cloudberry. I am suitably impressed. The younger man interrupts. 'I don't have one', he says. 'You parents weren't hippies?' I ask. 'We're brothers', says the man still slumped against the window. 'But the man she was with when she had him weren't into that sort of stuff'. The younger man kisses the dog. 'My name's Bob', he says.
They try to guess my middle name. 'Sid', the younger one suggests, 'as in C.I.D.'. 'Gap', suggests the other. I look confused. The younger explains, 'Gay and proud'. I give them the answer. The younger one repeats it out loud. 'It's alright that is', he says.
It's my stop so I get up to leave. 'Nice to meet you', I say. The slumped man nods his head. 'You take care now', says the other.
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