You could call me Tristan, but you’ll probably mistake it for Christian, or Crispin, or Justin or Tristian, (which by the way, is a made up name).
You may even call me Kristen, giving me the quickest, least painful gender reassignment available to man. I once might have wished for that.
You could call me Tristan Coleshaw as I was named at birth, or Mr Coleshaw, but then you inevitably would mix up my surname with the name of a creamy cabbage salad.
One or more of these has happened every single day of my life, every single day for thirty years.
So, the human race has called me by the wrong name, perhaps as many as ten thousand times.
How would you identify if you’d been called the wrong name ten thousand times?
You might not have a strong sense left of self, or you might choose to go by a different name, entirely…