I was just about to go seek out the old stagers when a familiar shape rose from a chair in front of me and turned sideways. I caught a glimpse of a bushy beard and instantly recognised an old workmate.
“G’day stranger,” I said enthusiastically, causing Bushy Beard to turn and face me. “G’day,” he said cheerfully, shaking my hand.
Obviously, because these are the things I tend to write about, it wasn’t my old workmate at all, was it.
I muttered an apology and Bushy Beard laughed. I have to say he was very good about it and we observed some pleasantries for a minute or so before I slunk off embarrassed. Again.
I say “again” because, me being me, this isn’t the first time I’ve been involved with a case of mistaken identity.
I have history in that regard. In fact, Mrs P says I’m a shocker.
Here’s how it all began.
Some years ago Mrs P and I were driving down the road and I saw my mate Sparky Steve jogging along the footpath.
Much to the surprise of his fellow ageing veterans at our club, he had given up the football some months before and thrown himself headlong into life-changing training for the Taupō Ironman event.
This required a very disciplined approach to an equally strict training regime and knowing Steve liked, shall we say, a “boisterous” after-match celebration with significant hydration, there were a few brows raised as to whether he could actually realise his goal.
Long story short, he could and did. Three times in a row to be exact.
But way back on this particular day when a familiar, portly frame came into view semi-staggering along, I felt a need to greet the old mate I’d not seen in a while.
Naturally, I slowed the car and put down my window to offer some good-natured abuse, er, I mean encouragement.
To this day I can’t quite remember exactly what I yelled out but Mrs P has since told me it had something to do with the 0800 number for Weight Watchers and a suggestion I could drop him off at their meeting that week if he needed a ride.
Now, on the face of it, that probably seems rather unkind to you dear reader but you have to know Sparky Steve. Fending off such jibes is/was his stock in trade and his comebacks are normally quick and witty.
Unfortunately, and I’m sure you can see where this is going, on this occasion there was no comeback. Either quick or witty. Because it wasn’t Sparky Steve.
Having embarrassed the poor random guy out doing his absolute best, all I could do was stammer an apology, wind up the window and continue driving as quickly as the speed limit would allow.
Sitting next to me a mortified Mrs P suggested we should go straight to a car dealer and sell the vehicle so we couldn’t be identified. We didn’t of course but I learned my lesson. Sort of.
In recent years I think I have grown up a lot. Well, okay, a little bit. And while I’ll still wave out to people I know – or think I know – I don’t wind the window down and yell abuse, er, I mean encouragement, any more.
And when it turns out the people I am waving to are people I don’t know, I’ve become adept at pretending I was waving to someone else. I’m sure you’ve all been there at some stage or another.
I know a good mate of mine named Barry experienced an interesting case of mistaken identity some years ago while travelling on a bus in our nation’s capital. For reasons of privacy, we’ll assume Barry’s surname is Smith.
He had boarded the bus for his 0-minute commute home from the city one night when a lady came up and warmly greeted him.
“Hello Barry,” she said, plonking herself down next to him. “I haven’t seen you for ages.”
For the remainder of the journey, Our Hero politely answered all the very broad questions fired at him while continually trying to work out exactly who the woman was.
Yes, his mother was doing well. As was his sister. Yes, he was still working in the city. And he still took the bus every day. Obviously.
After 20 minutes Barry was starting to sweat. He had absolutely no idea who this woman was and while her questions had been mostly general in nature with nothing too specific, she seemed to know him – and his family – quite well.
Eventually, Barry arrived at his stop and the woman got up to let him out of the seat. As he started to mutter one of those “Well it was nice to see you again” general farewells that cover all eventualities, the woman – who had obviously been having troubles with mistaken identity herself - stopped him.
“You are Barry Jones aren’t you?” she queried.
I’m sure there are lots more stories like this out there. Especially if you are one of those people like me who enjoys meeting people and having a chat.
The Law of Averages suggests you are going to get it wrong once in a while, aren’t you?
At this point, I could baffle you with a scientific – and most likely wordy - explanation of exactly how that occurs but something has come up.
I’ve just seen an old mate walking down the road past my place and I need to go say hello.
