My Name is NOT Eileen...

On Wednesday this week, and as part of my rather sexy sounding CONTINUING PROFESSIONAL DEVELOPMENT (oooh, matron! check me out, wanna touch me, etc?), I was lucky enough to attend an all day meeting pertinent to the demands of my job. Full of excitement (I don't get out much these days am afraid), I arrived on the dot but got confused as to where the door was, which I suppose does not bode well for any form of professional development, continuing or otherwise. Hey ho...

I sat in my car and took in the view of the building in front of me. The place looked a bit like an abandoned Romanian hotel from the late seventies. A quick orbit or two in the rain followed before I found my way inside where a lady welcomed me with a smile and dry miniature croissant that actually tasted of nothing. Armed with my four-colour biro and brand new virgin notepad (to demonstrate keenness and prove my professional development was cantering along nicely, thank you very much), I attempted to cross the threshold and into the training room. All of a sudden, the lady proferring the fetid pastries leaned over and disrespected my personal space by casually rubbing my left man booby. (It will no doubt come as a non-shock to reveal that I spectacularly failed to lose ANY weight last year. In fact, I put on a stone. Incessant slide to morbid obesity continues unabated.) Where was I? Oh yes, inappropriate man bap rubbage at 8.45 on a Wednesday morning. Lordy. After being felt up and experiencing pangs of flab related shame for a second too long, I breathed in as much as I possibly could and found myself a space at the front of the seminar (thus showing my true professionalism in all its continuing glory.)

The day was much more interesting than that itinerary suggested it would be. Rather curiously, I had a chat with a man at lunchtime, which concluded when he shook my hand and said in a broad accent, 'It was very very nice talking to you... Eileen.' This struck me as odd, seeing as though a) my name is not Eileen; and b) with the strongest imagination in the world, I don't think I 'look' like an Eileen. For instance, I have an Aunty Eileen who encapsulates everything an Eileen should: pastel shades, a ropey perm, A-line skirts, a whiff of Atrixo handcream and a grim determination to cling on to 1950s/60s fashion. Despite my questionable appearance and man boob combo, I don't think I fit this bill. Or do I?

The afternoon rolled on and my continuing professional ardour knew no bounds. I listened with intent. I was that annoying person, nodding fervently and whispering the odd, 'mmm, absolutely, yes, mmm!' every time someone said something that I agreed with. Which was every few minutes. Then, as the days proceedings came to a close, the curse of Eileen struck again. The chap leading the seminar asked a question. I answered him and he replied, 'Thanks... er, Eileen.' At this point, I looked to the woman next to me and frantically mimed, 'Eileen? Eileen? Why is he calling me Eileen?' She shifted her gaze from my eyes to my left man boob, back to my eyes and said, 'Because that's your name, isn't it?'

I looked down to where she had been looking and noticed - for the first time that day - that I was sporting a rather fetching name badge that screamed EILEEN. I hadn't been the victim of a quick feel-up earlier. The woman with the the moistureless comestibles hadn't been unable to resist honking my unseemly disco tit. She had in fact been fixing a name badge to me. With the wrong bleeding name on it. How worrying that people assumed that this was in fact my name. My continuing professionalism screeched to an almighty halt as I leaned back towards the woman next to me and said, 'Eileen? EILEEN? Do I look like an Eileen? What do you think I am? Some kind of failed tranny?' She looked at me and smiled, almost apologetically. 'Well,' she uttered, 'I didn't like to say...' before turning her head back to the seminar and proving her continuing professionalism was still intact by nodding enthusiastically at the speaker.