The Washing Up.

Marine doesn’t like her name.

“Why?”

“Because of her.” 

She doesn’t need to say more, I understand.

Who wants to be thought of alongside the leader of a far right political party?

If your persuasion lies elsewhere.

I try to console her, pointing out that you can probably find a negative connotation for any name.

“This is my brother,” she says introducing me.

His name is … well… I think it begins with a Q and I make an attempt, but there are too many syllables.

“Carlanton,” he repeats. “There’s an apostrophe.”

I hadn’t heard one.

“It’s Corsican.” 

“A Corsican apostrophe?” I’m floundering.

And incapable of thinking of any other Carlanton who may have either a negative or positive connotation.

This Carlanton, however, is nice. 

Clearly NOT a right-wing zealot.

He’s tall too. 

Taller than Marine and taller than me who is taller than Marine and Valou who suddenly appears from behind a rail of second-hand clothes.

“Salut ma Marinette.” Valu is French.

“Salut Valou.” So is Marine.

“That’s a nice name,” I offer Marine. I’m not.

“Valou?” asks Marine.

“No, Marionette.” I explain, making an error that I think is actually fairly funny.

“Marionette, gentille Marionette,” I start singing my own adaption of the French children’s classic Alouette.

The French look at each other.

“Charlton,” I say. I’m thinking out loud, trying to find a song for her brother.

I don’t find one and my voice trails away like a dog with its tail between its legs.

A silence hangs over us.

I know if I say anything else then they will consider me mad.

So I don’t.

I just wait there until they all drift away to other things more interesting.

And then I go back to the washing up I was washing up when Marine and Carlanton washed up where i was washing up.