Business stand-in

Bernard HollowOod

I met him in a Lyons café over a cup of tea and a bun, and he told me what a mess he was in. At the time the unemployment figure stood at just over two millions, and even well-qualified teachers were finding it difficult to get jobs.

The golden-haired youth (he reminded me of Rupert Brooke) had a post at an Irish prep school which was run by a thoroughly detestable headmaster-proprietor. This bully had anticipated the result of the Intermediate BSc (Econ) exam the young assistant master was sitting and had already included the qualification in the school's prospectus for the coming year. The young man exhibited a copy and there was his name.

-H. A. R. Weatherstall, Inter BSc (Econ) London University."

He was terrified of failing, being quite sure that such a disaster would entail dismissal and the dole. His particular worry was a paper in Constitutional History due .on the morrow, and his only hope of passing, he said, was to get someone like rue to sit the exam for him. Did I know anything about Constitutional History and would I

be tempted by E2?

I can see him now, his eyes staring, his hands shaking, as he made this 'strange proposition. Desperation had undermined his decency and converted him into a potential crook.

My knowledge of Const. Hist., 1 told him, was virtually nil, and in any case I couldn't advise such duplicity. Weatherstall shook my hand, said he knew" a few blokes in Islington," and departed.

Two months later I made it my business to check the results of the London exams for external students, and to my relief I saw that Weatherstall had passed. Weatherstall or some scholar from Islington? I should never know the answer.

This incident surfaced in my mind the other day when I read that the stand-in business, so common in the movies, was now spreading. It appears that there are various agencies specialising in this field, catering for the nervous, the ill-informed and the unprepossessing and charging pretty stiff rates for their services.

You want an overdraft at a bank?

The Ego Service Agency will impersonate you, forge your signature and win a passbook for a modest fee of £20. You need to claim social security relief and can't face the inevitable inquisition? The Mithras London Service Agency will take the interview for you in its stride. You have to face delicate take-over negotiations with a foreign merchant prince and don't feel up to them? Well, Ego, Ivlithras London or the Plago Street Service Agency will step into the breach on your behalf.

I am convinced that the impersonation racket is much commoner than is supposed. In fact, I'm not at all sure about the identity of my MP. The chap I see in newspaper photographs bears only the slightest resemblance to the dashing Conservative who carried the constituency by storm at the last election, and the man who appeared so hesitant and awkward on last week's Midweek programme was definitely riot the suave, confident candidate for whom I nearly voted.

Once suspicions have been aroused it's easy to see how often we ordinary people are fooled.

Everybody knows that ex-President Nixon had a double who was so good on TV that he could sweat and sob to order. Everybody knows that many books by celebrities are ghosted by literary hacks. But do you know, as 1 think I do, that there are at least three "Sir Fred Catherwoods?" I base this opinion on the fact that the real Sir Fred can't very well be speaking simultaneously in Milton Keynes, Oxford and Glasgow while he is appearing on Man of Action (Radio 3) and Come Wrestling (ITV).

And tell me how, if there is only one of him, how Andre Previn manages to write articles, play -decent jazz and conduct the London Symphony Orchestra.

I'm becoming convinced that someone is impersonating me, and said as much the other day to my bank manager...

"What's this debit in my monthly statement of £260-50 for Reredos?"

I said on the phone.

"Why, you bought 150 Reredos ordinaries two months ago, Mr H," he said. "Surely you can't have forgotten!"

-Nonsense," I said, "I've never heard of the company."

"But I took the message, the order, myself, Mr H," he said. "I remember it very well."

• "Well, if you say so," I said querulously, "but I think you're mistaken. By the way, what are the shares doing?"

"I'll just check. Hold the line for a minute."

While I waited my suspicions grew. I had bought no shares of any kind for two years, though only a month or so ago I'd had an inside tip about Cerebos salt. I mean, buying shares is a mug's game at present, isn't it?

"Reredos are standing at £2.75," said the bank manager. "They've gone up another lip this morning."

"Ah, well," I said. "I still think you're mistaken, but I'll say no more about it."

"Look at your cheque book, sir, and at your files," he said, "and you'll soon clear up the misunderstanding."

I'm also convinced that the same impersonator is getting into my house at night and switching on the gas and electricity. The bills for these services can't be explained in any other way. My guess is that this cove slips into the house at midnight, when we're asleep, and uses the place as his office until about 7.30 am. It would explain so many things — the shortage of paperclips, my soaring phone bill, our tendency to run out of instant coffee unexpectedly, the scrupulous cleanliness of the kitchen, an inexplicable letter from Wakely Rugby League FC thanking me for my donation of £50 towards its stand reconstruction fund, and of course the Reredos affair.

It's all very puzzling.