Coming home from Inverness on the bus on Saturday, the man sitting beside me - out of the blue - said, 'I met you in Dornoch once. You asked me about bus times at the bus stop.'

'Sorry, not ME,' I replied confidently.

• I knew I'd never got on a bus in Dornoch.
• I wouldn't rely on a stranger for advice when the times would be on display at the bus stop AND I always carry my reading glasses AND my mobile has a travel app AND my notebook would have connection times written down - as a final precaution.

'Well, it was someone that looked just like you then!' he blurted out like a man who is not often wrong.

Mistaken Identity.

We all like to think that we're unique, but there again, I'm sure we have an absolute double somewhere in the world. Remember that tv programme about doppelgangers? It was called: 'Finding my twin stranger'. Fascinating stuff!

Last week I saw a man I once knew at an ATM in Golspie. Quite a lot about him looked so similar: his height, his build, his mannerisms, his laugh. Yet it looked like him, as I knew him 15 years ago. It just couldn't be him!

Mistaken identity.

In my head, I can't seem to age people! My brain seems to only carry a snap-shot from wayback time - as they looked then!

To illustrate: while shopping in Inverness a few years ago, an old frumpy woman stopped me and declared, 'Do you remember me? I was at school with you.' Immediately I replied, 'I really don't think so!' But I was wrong. She was the brightest girl in my class AND the prettiest. The boys fought to sit beside her.

Not Mistaken Identity on her part. Mistaken Identity on my part.

When I was an art student in Aberdeen, I remember going upstairs on the no2 bus, bound for Gray's, when I noticed a girl I knew seated at the very front. I breezed towards her, saying rather loudly, 'Hey! How's you?' But it was a total stranger.

The corners of her full make-upped face kinked at the sight of yet another arty hippie nutter. I recognised that sneer. But from behind she had looked so familiar. Then I just had to sit uncomfortably beside her for over 20 mins. It was so painful, pretending to see interesting things in the opposite window! Even as the bus emptied and I could sense empty seats behind me, I was glued to my seat. Eventually my 'companion' excused herself and sidled awkwardly past my patched denim knees, trying not to come in contact with my embroidered Afgan coat, and holding her breath so as not to inhale my Musk Oil perfume. I'm sure I heard her mutter, 'Weirdo!'

Mistaken Identity.

Another time me and Mam were washing our hands in a public toilet in Inverness, when a Caithness voice hollared, 'Mrs T? I thought you were dead!'

Loud and brash - in true Caithness-stylie - no tact - call a spade a spade!

Mam had moved from Thurso about 6 months by then. The woman newsed away, not in the least embarrassed! Me and Mam just tittered when we got outside! I suppose it's rather endearing that you may be missed by almost-strangers.

Not Mistaken Identity.

I'm probably a lot older than you, but have you ever seen someone's double just days after they've passed? In Inverness, I once followed someone who looked so like a dear friend of mine who'd just died. I followed him into a cafe and stood behind him in the queue. I wanted to hear his voice. He sounded just the same. I knew it wasn't him. But he smiled at me. Maybe he was thinking, 'Weirdo'? But his smile warmed me inside.

Mistaken Identity - but not totally - Mistaken Identity.

'Ochanee' - as they would say in Caithness. I can't explain that one!

Let's all hope to be remembered fondly for who we are!