Tim Dowling: you must remember this…

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/jun/21/tim-dowling-on-radio-remembering-names

Version 0 of 1.

I've been on the radio a number of times; in a few short years, I have gone from being "not bad for someone who's never done it before" to "not very good, despite considerable experience" My heart still pounds, my breath runs short and ragged – every time.

I also fear large media complexes, because they're full of people whose names I'm meant to remember: people I met the last time I was there, people I've worked with before, actual acquaintances who happen to be in the building. In the minutes before I go on air, I barely know my own name. In my nervousness, I will have made some fundamental public transport miscalculation, and I will be sweaty and flustered from running. I will also have forgotten everything I'm supposed to talk about. It's not a good time to come up to me and say, "Hey, I haven't seen you since… when was it?"

It is Tuesday. Although I began my journey by walking to the wrong tube station, I am still so early that I must use up the excess minutes walking around the outside of Broadcasting House four times. Half an hour later, I am standing in the wrong reception area. Eventually I go up to the man at the desk and tell him my name.

"And who are you here to see?" he asks.

I stare at him, hoping some part of my brain will light up in response to his question. "I forget," I say.

Ten minutes later, I am preparing for a recording by drinking an ill-advised coffee. "Tim?" a voice says. I look up – it's a woman I know.

"Hi!" I say. Her name does come to me eventually, though long past the point when I could have introduced her to the person I am sitting with.

After the recording, the next person scheduled to use the studio is already waiting outside.

"You're Tim Dowling," he says.

I think: why does everybody remember my name? Then I realise: I'm wearing a name tag.

"Yes," I say.

"I haven't seen you since… when was it?"

"Yeah," I say. "Exactly. So what brings you here?"

"My radio show," he says.

"Of course!" I say.

On Wednesday I am back. The sound engineer is the same one as the previous day, but I can't remember his name. Luckily, he's behind a wall of glass; my thumbs-up is all the recognition required. Afterwards, I rip off my name tag and walk through the lobby eyes down. I think: you're finally getting the hang of this.

The next day I'm back again, to appear on local radio. Father's Day is looming and I'm here to characterise myself as a foolish and incompetent dad – on this occasion, at least, I've mastered my brief. Once again I am early, but a mere two circles round the building is sufficient to recalibrate my schedule. My time on the air flies by in a blur. That's it, I think – you're done.

There is a man sitting in the waiting area when I return for my stuff – a man I know. I do not, for the moment, know why I know him, only that I do know him. "Hi!" I say. "How are you?"

"Good!" he says. "It's been a while."

Yes, I think: it will have been. "So," I say. "What brings you here?"

"Oh, you know," he says. "Flogging the book."

He lifts a hardback partway out of his bag. My brain senses an opportunity for cunning. "Of course!" I say. "Let's have a look."

"It's the only copy I've got with me," he says, handing it over.

"Don't worry," I say. "I'm not going to keep it."

I glance down casually, scanning the cover for the author's name.There are two.