It's always nice to be noticed.

Over the past few days it seems I've been jogging memories left, right and centre. In fact it's the most jogging I've done since I finally escaped the torture of school cross-country - and let me tell you, I'm much better at jogging memories.

An old school friend started things off by breaking a silence going back five years or more (good old Facebook, relighting the fire) to ask if I was in Manchester these days. He reckoned he'd seen me walking down the city's Oxford Road - which I have indeed done, but not for several years.

This morning, on the way into work, the lady behind the till at Wycombe station's snack bar trumped this. She was certain she had served me in an Asda - not recently, she added, but a long time ago - and she had asked me for identity when I tried to buy some beer.

It took a search of Dayorama to remember the last time I went to Asda, let alone who served me at the till, and whether I had some beer in my basket and a youthful expression on my face. I'm fairly sure I have never been to an Asda anywhere near Wycombe. But she wore a look of absolute certainty. My doppelganger has not only been loose on the streets of Manchester, he's been snapping up cheap plonk down the supermarket.

There is no explanation at all for the third incident. I was on my way to a housewarming on Saturday night, for which I needed to get the train from Slough to Windsor.

I passed through the ticket barrier at Slough and walked past a small boy in a baseball cap, about 12 years old maybe, standing to the right of the gate. As I went by, he said something to me.

I hadn't been expecting that so I didn't catch what he said the first time, but stopped anyway, giving him time to repeat himself:

"You're off the BBC News, aren't you!"

Well, well, well. First things first, I'm not even going to pretend I'm not deeply delighted by this. My ego did a little cartwheel inside as soon as it digested the question.

But where on earth does this boy think he's seen me?

I've not been properly on telly for a good few months, and even then I've only done very occasional pieces - a report from a school last year, and a 30-second burst of ice hockey back in March.

I've been away from the radio since moving from Berkshire to London, and the only place my ugly mug has appeared in recent times is on the Olympics blog. Somehow it feels like it's asking a lot of a 12-year-old to even read the Olympics blog, let alone check out the profiles of its authors, commit their pictures to memory, then remain alert for their presence at Slough railway station.

Maybe he goes to ice hockey games and has seen me up in the gantry. Part of me felt like racing back down the platform to him and asking where he'd seen me, before it dawned on me quite how ridiculous and desperate that course of action would appear.

I contented myself with a pleasantly surprised, "Yes! Yes I am, good spot," and walked off to board my train. (I can hear the wails of people reading this already, but seriously, what would you have done? It's all I could immediately think to say. This kind of thing is not a regular occurrence!)

Maybe he's mistaken me for somebody else (Moyles? Ross? Daniel Craig?). Maybe the lady at Wycombe station served someone else, and maybe my long-lost identical twin is walking the streets of Manchester. Either that or, eyes drooping at the end of a long day, I'm about to indulge in some more spectacular sleepwalking. No wonder my mouth tastes of beer when I wake up...