On the tube journey home from work, I consider strange names I've come across in my time.
The first that springs to mind is that of a one-time friend of my sister. She was called "Jenny Taylor". When you first hear it, nothing registers, until you put yourself into a schoolboy's state of mind and realise it sounds a bit like "genitalia". Even then, it's not exactly hilarious.
Better is the (presumably fictional) extraordinary name that one of the regulars who enters our caption competition over on Orange goes by: Horatio Monkeychops.
For this type of observational blog post, three examples must be cited, otherwise it must be discarded and stamped on viciously. But as I sit on the tube, I cannot think of a third. My mind is blank. I get home; I do my chores. The final of these is to take my suit – which I rarely wear – to the dry cleaners round the corner. I check the pockets and come across two cards: one, an invitation to an awards ceremony I attended about a year back. The other is a business card, which I was given at the shindig in question. I stare at the name of the man who presented it to me, which is emblazoned across the front of the card.