I walked past one of the cleaning ladies in the corridor at work today. "Good afternoon, John," she said, cheerily.
"Good afternoon," I replied, just as cheerily. I have long since given up trying to explain to her that my name is Richard.
"Hey, Mike, the cleaning lady just called me John again," I said to a colleague, once the cleaning lady was out of earshot.
"She calls me Brian," said Mike.
Being a cleaning lady means never needing to learn anybody's name. It's probably the pressure of having such a high tech job.