I affected a briefcase. Yes, I know. One morning I was walking to university through a slightly salty housing estate and a likely young tyke, who really ought to have been hard at his Latin verbs, walked alongside me for about ten seconds and then slyly said,

"An inspector, eh?"

before disappearing to warn whoever should be warned that a representative of The Man was at the gate.

I was in any case too stunned to reply. The idea of me being in any position of responsibility was and is a magnificent misapprehension.

I was at a friend's party, and a woman I'd never met before (a friend of my friend) marched up to me, gave me a huge hug and announced she'd just been thinking of me this week because a job had come up at her firm that I'd be PERFECT for.

This was pretty confusing, because I was certain that I'd never met her before. And I'm usually pretty good on names / faces, but obviously I'm not infallible. So, I just kept chatting to her, hoping desperately that she'd click into place and I'd remember who she was.

So, she was going on and on about the job that she'd lined me up for, and I was getting more and more confused. Finally, I plucked up the courage to ask if I was definitely the person she thought I was. And I wasn't. Shame; the job sounded alright!

I was in a suit walking through Guildford Woolies one lunchtime. A middle-aged lady stands directly in front of me and says, simply, "Beach Bags".

I look puzzled. She says slowly and deliberately with large mouth movements, as if to a simpleton, "where-are-the-beach-bags?". The penny drops. "I don't work here - I don't know."

I was about 17 (this was 1983) and my male colleagues nodded with recognition at this experience.

said the American tourist to me as I was walking over London Bridge.

"Yes?"
"How do I get to London Bridge?"
"You're standing on it."

Hi Viz is very effective as a social compliance tool, as demonstrated on The Real Hustle.

I've been wrongly identified as a car park attendant, a security guard, and a council worker. On each occasion, worryingly, I could easily have turned the situation to my advantage without even really trying. Like the briefcase mentioned above, it lends an air of authority which isn't even questioned.

mistaken as a member of special branch by some young ruffian coming out of Stamford Bridge after a game. Made a pleasant change from being spat at, I suppose.

The great James Camerson once told a story of being accosted by a pushy German tourist outside BBC TV centre asking for the directions to Trafalgar Square. As Cameron was trying to figure out the quickest route, the tourrist lost patience, pointed to tv centre and said "is there ?", to which Cameron said yes indeed, on the 3rd floor.

At a terminus station on the other side of the world I watched a bloke of similar appearance take five minutes to walk all the way up one long platform, round the buffers and down the long platform on which I stood. He'd been travelling for months and all he wanted to do was to talk to someone in his native Danish and apparently my face allowed of no other possibility. Disappointed, he had to make do with sub-Manc. Again.

Some years ago my Spanish sister in law and a colleague had come over from Spain for a conference. They'd come early and were spending a day with us.

Having taken them for tea at Waterlow Park's Lauderdale House I suggested that a stroll round nearby Highgate Cemetery would be interesting.

When we got to Karl Marx's grave this elderly, well dressed nutter just started yelling "Kneel down, kneel down. Worship your god. You fools. Worship your god....." When I got a chance I said "We're not Marxists, I'm just...", but was unable to continue "You coward, you can't even defend your god. Kneel down and pray... blah blah blah".

Fortunately my sister in law and her colleague were more amused than offended.

I'd just moved in with my then-girlfriend in Stockport. We both had good jobs in Manchester city centre which necessitated smart dress and commuted via train every day.

One Friday night, after a tough week, I fancied a pint on getting off the train so called into a real spit-and-sawdust place on the main drag next to the station.

In my smart overcoat, Thomas Pink shirt, charcoal two-button suit and polished shoes, it was like something out of a cowboy film when I walked in. I can't be sure if the jukebox stopped after I pushed open the door, but I like to think it did and that all eyes turned to me.

After ordering a pint of Guinness - my regular, but a man's drink all the same and one to show I'm in a pub on merit - one of them got up and asked me if I was an undercover copper. Well, if you imagine a few more crude examples of Anglo-Saxon in between the words constituting that question?

"If I'm an undercover copper, I'm doing a pretty bad job at it aren't I?" I replied, adding a few expletives of my own to further ramp up my 'I belong here' claim. A flash of my ID card from where I was working helped me enjoy the rest of a truly dreadful pint in peace, though as I was leaving someone shouted "See you later, Inspector."

I never went back. Though was surprised to see the following Friday night it was full of Ra-Ras for in Edgeley for the Sale Sharks game.

...and this nice old man asked me where he could find the yoghurt. I said it was usually kept in the refrigerated section near the milk - perhaps a member of staff could help? He apologised saying that he thought I worked there. I was wearing a 'Motorhead' t-shirt!

wear an orange fleece to Sainsburys. It was my own fault - I should have realised. My shop took twice as long as usual.

Mind you, wearing a suit in a supermarket often has the same effect.

on a trip to the London Eye. Being infrequent visitors to the great metropolis and none too sure of directions, we alighted at the Waterloo railroad terminus and looked in vain for signs. Spotting an Information point with attendant British Rail employee (who, I have to say, was in a rather scruffy red t-shirt and listening to one of those mp3 thingies whilst on duty) I went over and politely asked, "London Eye?"

I fear, alas, that prolonged listening to beat music on the mp3 thingey had damaged his hearing - or perhaps he was just surprised to hear a polite enquiry - and the befuddled lad simply gawped at me. "Where's the London Eye" I asked in a mildy raised voice.

The lad gave us directions (as is the way nowadays, without a 'please,' 'thank you' or 'have a nice day') but they were accurate enough. Wishing a polite "Thank you" to the lad, who I suppose could have been a work(shy) experience lad employed by British Rail at low rates, Mrs. F and I pottered off to the Eye and a wonderful afternoon was had.

I do wonder at British yoof, though and wonder what will happen to that young lad :-)

they asked - me standing in the shoe shop unshaven and wearing shorts, t-shirt, and trail shoes.

I know you can't get the staff these days but I thought that was pushing it a bit.

Wandering around the shop floor with my ludicrous orange apron - liberally covered with "B&Q" logos - and sporting a Star Trek like stock checker thing, I lost count of the number of times I was asked "Do you work here?"

And yet, every time, I failed to produce the required witty but subtly sarcastic rejoinder!

and I guarantee that if you spend 30 mins in there, you will be asked at least once where the memory sticks are, whether the Sony 42" plasma can run at 1080p whilst making the tea or whether the Dyson washing machines are any good (they aren't, they're shite) PC World, Comet, Curry's etc. any of them, you'll be asked.

The shirt and tie wields uncanny power in electrical circles.

Outside Euston station one evening I was propositioned by a man who asked if I was 'doing business'.

I was standing in a bus queue at the time. A full bus queue, at a bus stop.

Some years ago I would always be accosted by strangers at bus stops in a certain area of Stockholm, saying hello and chatting away in a friendly way that suggested acquaintance.
Sooner or later they would always say "I haven't seen you for a while, have you quit your job at Åhléns?" (=chain of department stores in Sweden)
When I explained that they had me confused with someone else they would often refuse to believe me. One woman that I kept bumping into at the same bus stop would interrogate me every time in a suspicious manner that made me wonder if my double had borrowed money from her...
I would like to meet this clone, only to get a sense of how other people see me. You can't tell from a mirror really.
(On the other hand I could end up never leaving my home again...)