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The first time he called me Sadie I didn’t think much of it. It was still early in the morning and it was more than likely I had mumbled when he’d asked for my name minutes earlier. The second time, I wondered just how bad my diction was. By the tenth time, I walked away from the takeaway coffee window wondering if I had spent my entire life underestimating how cool I truly was and thinking maybe I could actually pull off being a Sadie.

The barista’s cafe had become my new place of daily pilgrimage earlier in the year when, for reasons that now escape me, I had decided to become a morning person. In order to achieve even a modicum of productivity beyond standing upright, though, I needed coffee. With his being one of the few cafes open before 7am, I quickly became a regular and, usually, still half asleep and completely disinterested in conversing beyond saying thank you, I started answering to the name of Sadie, justifying it was a small price to pay in exchange for liquid goods.

Aikd, Sadie and Candy, but no Katy.

Over the years I’ve been called a string of similar-but-not-the-same names: Bailey, Hayley, Catty, Kathy, Kylo. Once, I got Baby, which was as deeply awkward and uncomfortable for everyone as you’d imagine. Then there are the names that sound nothing like Katy or simply don’t exist: Sarah, Helen, Hayden, Aikd.

As anyone who has a commonly mistaken name knows, there’s a kind of dance that accompanies these situations. The barista shouts out a name, no one immediately steps forward, and the realisation of what’s happened quickly dawns on both parties. The barista checks the cup and tries again, this time reading out the order before repeating the mistaken name. “Long black for [insert wrong name here].” If your order is particularly unusual or, in my case, you’re the only one on the street because it’s still dark, the awkwardness is easily cut short. If it’s busy or someone else called Dom or Tom or John has also ordered, though, minutes of your time are about to be eaten up by this round of Whose Coffee is it Anyway?

But just as the barista and I were settling into our groove – him calling me Sadie, me saying thank you – I was outed.

Stepping into the warmth of the cafe, I saw him and a waiter looking at the morning’s newspaper. “Morning,” I said. Looking up from the pages, the barista flipped to another page and lifted the paper up. “Is that you?” he asked, pointing to my photograph. I replied yes, and tried to change the subject by commenting on the music that was playing. Grabbing a coffee cup and starting to write out my order, he looked up.

“Why does it say Katy next to your photo?”

“Oh, um, well, that’s … that’s my name,” I said sheepishly.

After some awkward attempts to explain why I’d been going along with a different name for over a month and him asking what name appeared on my driver’s licence (Katherine, as it happens) he asked if I had a preference between Katy or Sadie.

It’s this exact moment that most people would say their preference was their real name and move on. Instead, I chose chaos and responded, “I don’t mind, either is fine.”

If the option was between Iggy Pop or John Farnham, I walked away thinking, maybe I am a Sadie after all.Credit: iStock

Sadly, the ground did not open up and swallow me whole that day, which meant I had to do what any sane person in the same situation would do and changed my walking route to find another cafe.

The new barista was studious and appeared to be as uninterested in small talk as I was. I gave him my order, tapped my phone and resumed my mindless phone scrolling. At last, I thought calmly, a solution. Sure, my life as Sadie was fun while it lasted, but who was I kidding? I was no more a Sadie than Marilyn Monroe was a Norma-Jean.

Clearly frustrated at having me ignore him the first two times he’d called my name, the new barista walked over to me and glared. “Candy, your coffee is ready.” If the option was between Iggy Pop or John Farnham, I walked away thinking, maybe I am a Sadie after all.

Accepting the futility of it all, I decided to return to the original barista, tail between my legs.

“Miles!” he shouted with a smile as I opened the door. Of all the name fates that awaited me, Miles had not been on my bingo card. I looked over my shoulder to see if he was talking to someone else.

“Like Miles Franklin,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You know, coz of the whole using Katy as your pen name.”

Suddenly, it dawned on me. Far from being cool enough to be a Sadie, this person thinks I’m someone who has adopted a nom de plume (spoiler: I am neither that cool nor that pretentious).

So, to the barista, if you’re reading this, I will answer to Miles, Sadie, Helen or even Aikd, but I prefer Katy. But there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. What’s your name? You never said.

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