About 12 years ago Monica and I are in adjacent toilet cubicles of a bar very early on a Sunday morning. We have been drinking a great deal of gin all night long , we have flirted with the rubbish band and danced like twats in this total dive for hours and had ourselves a fine time.
Monica flushes, dis-engages her door and goes to wash her hands as I realise my cubicle has no toilet paper. I say her name with exaggerated tragedy MONICA!!! and request her assistance. As she passes some under the wall to me I hear a girls voice Oh my god – is your name Monica? My names Monica too!. The voice sounds like it belongs to someone significantly more drunk than either of us.
A conversation ensues between them regarding the relative uniqueness of their name. My mischief nerve is tweaked. Emerging from the cubicle behind them I stumble up to the handbasins, exclaim You’re both named Monica? Ohmigod, my names Monica TOO! and join in the conversation. In some sort of Jungian instant collective-thought prank, more toilets flush and more women (in various states of drunkeness) emerge to join the group proclaiming This is amazing! I’ve never met another Monica IN MY LIFE!, Jesus I’ve always hated being known as Monica, I felt so alone etc. etc. until about 7 or 8 of us are clustered around the mirrors going all ‘Monican’ on each other (to my Monica’s delight).
Monica MK II is blown away. She has to go get her friends. They’ll never believe this. The rest of us laugh, wash our hands, fluff our hair and filter off into the streets as the sun rises.