A LADY called Wendy Richards was recently surprised and delighted to receive an invitation to be the guest of the Mayor of Camden at a formal civic luncheon. As the mayor had been present at an event at which her poetry had been read, she thought her modest literary prowess had attracted the civic dignitary's attention. She arrived on the day to find that she had been confused with the singular Wendy Richard, queen of EastEnders long before any branch of the Windsor family moved in.

Such mistakes are sadly not uncommon and, indeed, were not unheard of in Roman times, if Shakespeare is to be believed. Who can forget the untimely demise of poor Cinna the poet, who attracted the ire of a mob who mistook him for Cinna the conspirator? Poets seem to attract more than their fair share of cases of mistaken identity, although I think the Camden poetess did at least get a good lunch.

Almost a decade ago I was invited by London Weekend Television to choose my selection of favourite clips from Denis Norden's "It'll be Alright on the Night."

They sent me several tapes of clips from previous series. I trawled through them and made my selection. A researcher spoke to me several times on the phone, the final call being to organise my attendance at the studio where I would talk through my choice on air with the great man.

Right at the end of the conversation I told her I was surprised that my favourite out-take had not been included. I paraphrased "You know, the one that goes Colin Baker News at Ten, Houses of Parliament, cold, soaking wet, exhausted, fed up, huge mortgage etc, etc. . .".

Her meaningful laugh and failure to respond otherwise should have rung alarm bells but it didn't.

On the day, I turned up at the studios, was ushered through to make-up and sat there watching my eyebrows appear. The door of the make-up room opened. A young man came in, looked around and went out again. Then an older man entered did the same and went out again. Then, they both came in and slowly approached me.

"Colin Baker?" the older one asked, in that tone of voice that leads you to believe that almost any other answer would be preferable to the affirmative. I think if I had said: "No I am the devil incarnate come to take you to the pits of hell", relief would have preceded any other reaction.

"Oh dear!" said the senior of the two men. "This is rather embarrassing. We've booked the wrong Colin Baker. You see there is another Colin Baker" "I know" I interrupted, "Colin Baker News at Ten, Houses of Parliament, cold, soaking wet". The penny dropped. "...ah!"

They nodded forlornly. They had told the bookers to get Colin Baker for an entertainment show the bookers had therefore assumed. . .

I took the make up off and returned home with their apologies and embarrassment trailing behind me like a jilted bride's wedding train.

They didn't go for my suggestion their own cock-up could actually be the subject of an item in the show.

I don't know whether the newscaster, whom I have never met but who shares my name, ever did do his version.

They kindly sent me a magnum of champagne by way of apology, so it was alright on that particular night anyway.