The woman entered the room. She was, oh, I don’t know, artsy. She wanted something and she didn’t know how to get it. Her boss had told her to come to see me. A colleague spoke to her and pointed in my direction, indicating that I was the person she needed to speak to. Before I even had chance to get up, another colleague was walking towards her, hand outstretched in greeting. We share a name, same spelling, different pronunciation. Mine is the female version. “Hello Wendy,” he said. She didn’t correct him to let him know her name is Deborah. “Hello Jan,” she replied, all hard ‘J’ and misunderstanding the gender difference between us. So now she’ll think that he is me, and honestly, I’m quite happy with that. A discussion followed, my two colleagues trying to explain to her how she could get what she needed from the system. But she was artsy. She wanted the me who wasn’t me, either one of them, to do it for her. She only went away again once she knew that her boss’ PA would be able to do it for her just as well as either not-me could do it.