I was in Borders the other day purchasing Mozza’a new album, and as I was signing the receipt the sales assistant glanced at my credit card and then suddenly exclaimed, “Oh my God!! Are you Ian McEwan, the famous author??!!” Now, apart from the fact that my name is Iain McEwan, I cannot imagine what could possibly have given her the idea that I may be the Booker Prize winning writer of Amsterdam. Perhaps the foreign accent and the relative rarity of the name helped engender this erroneous assumption, but I’d have thought the tattered Bulls jacket, the unshaven chin, the cheap pants and the very un millionaire-like aura that exudes from every pore of my being would have quickly derailed such a train of thought.
In any event, she was beside herself with excitement, and I must confess that I was very tempted to answer in the affirmative, and then offer to host an impromptu book signing session for the other patrons. This would not have been completely out of character, as I have been known to do things that are almost as crazy in the past, but the Devil within gave me a rare moment of peace, and I instead let out a barking laugh, and pointed out the the additional “i” in my Christian name. This did not go down well, as she seemed to think it very rude of me to not be Ian McEwan, the glamorous wordsmith, and instead be Iain McEwan, the untalented pauper.
So has anything like this ever happened to you, either because of your name or an uncanny resemblance? And did you (or would you) take the plunge and play along?
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