On not being called Gary. Or William, for that matter

I've written before on these pages about how I'm often mistaken for other people. I appear to have one of those faces that look like every single person on the face of the planet.

In the past, I've been repeatedly mistaken for a former colleague called Roy, to the point that several months after he left to get a job in Switzerland, I was upbraided by somebody in the staff canteen over why I wasn't actually in Switzerland, and why I had the temerity to sit there after they had contributed to my leaving present and everything.

I had to show my staff ID to prove that I wasn't Roy.

Earlier, I had once been mistaken for somebody who had stolen my accuser's girlfriend. This particular encounter only ended when his argument became unnecessarily physical and I boxed him to the ground with a single punch.

Whoever the girlfriend-stealer was (and I have a very good idea), I do not want to be him.

An illustration showing how much I am not Roy

The whole 'Aren't you supposed to be somewhere else?/It's Him! I've caught the Tilehurst poisoner!/I'm afraid your cat is dead Mr Jefferson' thing has died down over recent years, perhaps due to the fact that I've grown a beard that covers up my Mr Everyman face.

Or so I thought.

In the last week alone, I have been accused of being a Gary and a William. I am neither a Gary nor a William, neither do I look like any Garys or Williams that I know.

The only plus side was that neither of these people accused me of doing anything awful, but then, neither Gary nor William were lottery winners being chased by somebody with an oversized cardboard cheque made out to ″Bearer″.

Swings and roundabouts, I suppose.