I was about 19 before I met anyone with the surname Engel to whom I was not directly and obviously related. It happened in a queue of people waiting to get on a tourist bus, and we had to give our names at the desk. The man in front of me was a tall, young rather patrician-looking American, and he said his name was Engel. I got terribly excited. “Hey!” I said to him. “My name’s Engel, too!”

He turned and looked at me in that withering way that can only be achieved by tall, young patrician-looking Americans. “So?” he said. And he stalked off.