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Making my way home in the dark a tall youth with a padded jacket and his female companion are walking towards me.  She is shorter and rounder with auburn hair swiped over her forehead.  I stop them to ask my question.  The boy is motionless.  'Yeh?', he says, 'Yeh?'.  'So do you think you could tell me yours?' I ask.  He leaps two steps back and shakes his hands in the air,  'Naaah!' he says with wide eyes, 'Why do you wanna know 'dat?'  I must look towards the girl because she gives me hers with an air of quiet resignation.

As I make to leave, I notice some white letters on his black T-shirt.  I ask him what it says.  He shows me.  It reads 'DAAAAMN FAAAM!!'  I ask him what it means.  'DAAAAMN means like Daaaamn!' he says gesturing with his arms.  I ask what FAAM means.  He shakes his head.  'Don't worry about it, man, innit', he says and they move on laughing.

Elaine

At the check-in for the flight home I ask, too late, if it's possible to have a seat on the aisle.  The girl behind the desk has long hair (strawberry-blonde) with a fringe and small pink studs in her ears.  She checks our boarding passes.  'If your name's Richard, you're in luck', she says.  My reaction is, perhaps, more than the situation calls for.  She smiles and says she is pleased that it has worked out so well.  I ask my question.  She gives me an answer.  We all leave happy.

Wilfred

An alternative tour of Belfast with a record shop owner and local musical legend.  He has grey hair, a glass eye and a wealth of anecdotes.  Sometimes he is difficult to understand.  People stop to say hello.  At the end of the tour he finds a pub that is willing to show us the trailer of the new feature film that is based on his life.  The emotion makes him well-up.

On the way out, I thank him and ask my question.  'Named after my uncle who ran in the snow the day I was born', he tells me.  Or at least that's what it sounds like.  I decide not to ask him to elaborate.

Pearl

On a plane to Belfast, the middle-aged lady sitting next to me wants to talk.  She has cropped dark hair and a strong Northern Irish accent.  I hear about her recent trip to Reykyavik, the importance of good friends and the girl who broke her eldest son's heart.  'I liked her right enough like', she says, 'but it was me who had to pick up the pieces'.

As we arrive, I tell her about my project.  'Oh dear', she says, 'mine's rather old-fashioned'.  She was named after her aunt.  'I bet you haven't had that one before'.  I tell her I haven't.  'Precious as a pearl', she says with a hint of sarcasm before wishing me a happy weekend.

Drury

Watching some international theatre above a pub, I meet the uncle of one of the performers.  He has white hair combed back and a goatee (again white but speckled with grey).  He and his family live on Hayling Island and had come up to London for the evening. 

'I've lumbered my son with it too', he says about his middle name.

Mary (III)

Seeking shelter from the relentless rain in a small art gallery in Cambridge.  'It's horrid out there', says the lady behind the counter.  'Yes.  It's grim', I reply.  She has light-coloured hair in a thick fringe and a friendly demeanour.  I decide to make double use of the respite from the weather.  'Do you have to guess it?' she asks with a gentle twinkle.  I tell her that it is not obligatory but I could try.  She gives me the first letter.  'Margaret?'  I suggest.  She shakes her head.  'Matilda?'  I try.  No luck.  My friend comes up with the correct answer.  'Although I think I rather prefer Matilda', she says.

Romero

Walking down the pavement with my head in a book, a man kisses his painted fingernails as I pass.  'You look very elegant', he says in what sounds like a Spanish accent, and he mimics my concentrated expression.  On his head, a cloche hat made of felt sits at a jaunty angle.  He is wearing a mustard shirt with matching tie and waistcoat.  His face is tanned with a layer of foundation, eye-make-up and lipstick (slightly smudged).  He is seated at a table outside a pub with a pint of beer and two roses on the bench next to him.  He is probably about sixty.

I decide to ask my question.  He looks suspicious.  'What's your name?' he asks.  I tell him.  'Sit down, Richard', he says, gesturing to the seat opposite him.  I do.  'We must speak quietly', he says, leaning in.  A younger man approaches to ask us directions to a different pub.  'Excuse me', he says.  'You're excused', says my painted gentleman, 'Go away'.  He looks back to me, 'You've got to laugh, Richard', he says.  I agree. 

He tells me that he is a 'theatre and film-maker extra-ordinaire'.  He taps my arm.  I say I will Google him when I get home.  He looks confused.  I explain that I will look him up on the internet.  'Do, Richard, do', he says enthusiastically.  I repeat my question.  He pauses for effect and taps his nose.  'What do you pay?'  I tell him that it is not usually a monetary exchange.  'A phone number?' he suggests.  I say that I think a phone number is perhaps too high currency for a middle name.  He leans closer to me and whispers an answer.  'It means rosemary', he says.

I thank him and explain that I am late for a teaching appointment and need to be on my way.  'I'm a professor but I don't like teaching', he says.  I collect my bag and stand up to leave.  'You look lovely', he says.  'Thank you', I reply.  He waves as I continue down the pavement.

(At home, I make good on my promise to Google him and, whilst his extra-ordinary talents are not splattered all over the internet, he did direct a film of 'Hamlet' in 1976 with Helen Mirren as Ophelia and Gertrude and Quentin Crisp as Polonius.  The nunnery scene is particularly fine.)