Two years ago, I went to the British Trade Travel fair at the NEC in Birmingham, for work. When I showed up at the door, the officious recptionist behind the desk made me fill in a registration form in block capitals - name, employer, phone number, all the usual stuff. I printed MEG PICKARD clearly, and handed her the form.

She typed in the details, and then a few seconds later, the printer started whirring at the other end of the desk. After a moment, she passed me my name badge.

Or rather, she passed me someone else’s name badge. Someone called Mick Pilchard. Not me.

I pointed out to her that my name was not, in fact, Mick Pilchard, and quite aside from anything else, I was female. I laughed and asked her to re-print my badge, perhaps turning off the internal spell-checker on her machine.

She stared at me solemnly and shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I can only give one badge per visitor.”

“Well, yes,” I nodded, “I appreciate that. But, you see, that’s not my name. So that’s not my badge.”

She stopped and thought. “Do you work for x company?” she asked.

I sighed, seeing where this was going. “Yes,” I replied. “I do. But Mick Pilchard doesn’t.”

She shook her head again. “I’m sorry, Mrs Pilchard,” she continued, “this is your visitor badge. Next!”

For two days I had to wander around that bloody trade fair as an imposter, explaining why the name on my business card didn’t match the name on my badge. No, Mick Pilchard isn’t my husband. No, I’m not a last minute replacement from my company. No, I didn’t mis-spell my name on the registration form.

Two and a half years later, I’m still getting mail addressed to Mick.