Do you Know Who I Am?

In which The Author (and his friends) are the victims of mistaken identity

Yesterday afternoon, to mark the successful completion of another book by Christian Cameron (the third historical novel of his which I've copy-edited), I popped into the Glosters for a pint. Wayne L., the guvnor, was behind the bar, and we were chatting when a young woman walked in. She said hello to us both, and I said hello back – even though I had no idea who the hell she was. I recognised her, certainly, but placing her was a different matter entirely.

Anyway, she and Wayne were talking just out of sight when I heard her mention 'Sensodyne' and 'bleach' and 'teeth', and the penny dropped. She's one of the nurses in the dental surgery next door to the pub.

The dental surgery I attend regularly.

As a rule I only see her when she's wearing her work uniform. Seeing her in jeans and a jacket over a black top meant that she was completely out of context.

After she'd gone, Wayne said, 'I felt a bit embarrassed then, because I couldn't remember her bloody name.'

I said, 'You're one up on me, mate. I didn't even recognise her with her clothes on.'

We went on to talk about similar experiences we've had over the years. I told Wayne about the time I was walking through Queen's Arcade in Cardiff, on a Saturday lunchtime a couple of weeks before Xmas. A chap in his fifties (probably), walking through the arcade with his family, said hello as we passed each other. I said hello back, and spent the rest of my day racking my brains to try and remember where I knew him from. Was he someone who called into the bookshop regularly? Or someone I knew from the pub? Or even a former teacher whom I hadn't seen since my A levels? Maybe he'd been in the Cynon Valley Quiz League, or some other social group I'd been involved with in my younger days.

The mystery was solved on the Monday morning, when I boarded the X7 to Cardiff and he was sitting behind the wheel. Trevor had taken us to Cardiff every weekday (barring holidays) for at least the previous year. Out of his Shamrock uniform and outside his cab, his face just didn't register in my mind. Odd, isn't it?

I was thinking about similar episodes last night. A couple of weeks ago, I was in Jac's Music Venue in Aberdare, chatting to Barrie and Amanda (the managers) over a pint. My phone beeped to signal the arrival of a text message. Since only about half a dozen people have my current number, I was a bit surprised to see only a number instead of a name in the 'Sender' field.

I was even more surprised when I opened the message. It said something like 'Hi Hayley, sorry but Josh won't be able to come to Molly's party tomorrow, he's a bit under the weather.'

I read it out to Barrie and Amanda, and then said, 'There literally is no answer to that.'

I expect this accidental mis-delivery has caused poor Josh to be friendzoned by an angry Molly. (Get used to it, mate. Bitches be crazy!)

I was having a pint in Kitty Flynn's in Cardiff, on a Saturday afternoon about halfway through my second first year at university. A chap I'd never seen before came over to me, told me how much he liked my guitar playing, and offered to buy the next drink. I thanked him and told him I was only killing time between trains (which was true). I couldn't accept a drink on false pretences, could I?

I don't know who this mysterious guitarist actually is, but I was walking through Aberdare a few months ago and someone came up to me out of the blue. He'd obviously had a few (or maybe something stronger and less legally available), but he started ranting on at me about a gig I'd played in Swansea where I'd apparently pissed him off. I told him I hadn't picked up a guitar in public for well over twenty years, but he wouldn't have it. Eventually, I think I said, 'Fuck off, you stupid wanker!' (or words to that effect) and walked away rather quickly.

One of the reps who used to call into the bookshop was a very nice guy called Julian Cooper. He and his partner Glynis lived in South Devon (Newton Abbot, if memory serves), and would come to Cardiff a couple of times a year. Between them they carried an eclectic set of lists, both books and stationery. Julian would visit the bookshops, Glynis would do the stationers', and between them they could do a city centre in a day's visit. We became great friends, and we'd always have a good chat before getting down to the serious business of buying books.

Julian was born in the very early 1950s, and was a bit of a hippy in his younger days. (I think he still was, at heart.) He'd always be very smartly dressed in a suit, but with an open-necked shirt. His wavy hair was greying, but still long enough to identify him as slightly bohemian. He's also about my height and build.

One of his visits was a couple of days after our annual stocktake. We'd always take on a large group of students to help out on the day (and night), and some would stay on for a few days afterwards. Two such were named Ruth and Rebecca, and they were helping to make the shop shipshape (try saying that after a few pints) when Julian walked up the stairs. I was behind the counter, so he strolled over, shook my hand, and we started chatting as usual. As we went to find a quiet corner, we noticed that the girls were whispering to each other and glancing over at us. We didn't think anything of it at the time.

After Julian had gone, Rebecca walked over to me and said, 'Was that your father you were talking to?'

I don't think the possible resemblance had ever crossed my mind (or Julian's) before, but now that she'd mentioned it, it wouldn't have been too hard to imagine.

That night, I rang Julian at home and told him what the girls had thought. He found it hilarious, and it became a running joke of ours ever after.

He'd walk into the shop and say, 'How are you, son?'

I'd reply, 'Hello, Dad, good to see you. How's stepmother?'

I'm sure at least one of the younger members of staff thought we were on the level, too.

This next case of mistaken identity also involves my father. (My real father, not the one from South Devon). As Dad got older, his eyesight started to seriously deteriorate, and he didn't make things any easier for himself by not wearing his glasses.

Phil (my brother) has worn glasses since school. He used to have fairly long hair, a bit of a beard, and wore faded denims in an old-school rock style. But at the time I'm talking about, that was quite a common look around the Valleys.

Dad called into the Cambrian for an afternoon pint one day. He knew most of our gang, and they knew him. Nobody was especially surprised when Dad approached Leighton L., who was reading the paper by the bar. Leighton was wearing faded denims, had long hair, and a bit of a beard. He was also wearing his reading glasses.

The way Leighton recounted the story, Dad apparently offered to stand him a pint (which Leighton declined). Dad then asked him about his work situation (hit and miss, the odd 'hobble' here and there), his love life (disastrous), his baby daughter (estranged because of the disastrous love life), and various other topics.

After five minutes or so, the penny dropped. Phil's life and Leighton's were running on exactly parallel lines, so every time Dad asked 'my brother' a question, Leighton was able to give an entirely appropriate answer. I don't know if Leighton ever told Dad that he wasn't actually talking to his younger son, or just decided to keep it until he'd seen us.

Years ago, I was in a pub – possibly the Cambrian, but it might have been the Glandover or the Mount Pleasant, when they still had a live music scene – when a chap I knew by sight came over to me. We chatted for a few minutes about the bands, work, girlfriends, people we both knew, life in general, blah blah blah …

'How's your brother doing these days?' he asked.

I told him Phil was doing OK, and then he completely flummoxed me.

'I like your brother. He's one of the best bass players I've ever seen around here. Tell him I was asking about him.'

And he said goodbye and walked away.

Now, I doubt if Phil knows one end of a bass guitar from the other, let alone how to play the damned thing. To this day, I have no idea who this guy thought I was, or who this very talented sibling is. Maybe Leighton is a closet bass player. Who knows? Maybe we should get him together with my guitarist lookalike and form an O'Gorman Brothers tribute act. Answers on a postcard, please …