Andy Richardson: Dream a little dream - what's in a name?

She was looking down at Copacabana Beach as the sun beat down. She was accepting the pleasantries of guests who were enjoying an elevated view of the brouhaha below. I was introduced to Margaret as the final guest at her table and, to my surprise, she was as pleasant as my Auntie Brenda.

We talked of brilliant things and at the back of my mind I thought this: 'I'm actually sitting down to afternoon tea with Margaret Thatcher in Brazil. How often does that happen? I can stick that in this week's column.'

I pictured the gleeful response of colleagues as they wrote the headlines: Richardson meets Thatcher at Rio Olympics. Boom. Boom. Exclusive. Exclusive. Exclusive. Tell circulation all about it now.

Margaret Thatcher hadn't been reborn, of course. And we weren't in Rio.

There was no re-run of the Olympics and if I tell circulation about it they'll call the guys in the white coats who'll ship me off to a big house in the country.

In fact, I'd nodded off late on a Sunday night after running through a choice of three ideas for this week's column. I'd been musing whether I should a) write about the three namesake doppelganger journalists who seem to have forged far more impressive careers in the media than this one-time Black Country denizen who hopped across the border into Salop. More of which later.

Or, b) tell the funny story about a sort-of-but-not-really-line-manager who when asked to carry out my annual staff appraisal shrugged shoulders and said something like, nah, don't fancy that one, he's a nutter. More of which later, it's funny.

Or, c) riff on how we ought to love our nearest and dearest and make every second count; an idea inspired by a bout of poor health in a person who is my North Star.

The deadline for my column came and went – I never (normally) miss a deadline – and then Maggie appeared to me in a vision.

"Stuff that nonsense stuff about namesakes," she said, in plummy, Middle England tones. "Forget the juice about your staff appraisal and ignore the heartfelt stuff about your nearest and dearest. Write about MMMMMEEEEEEEEE instead." Thanks Margaret. I just have.

But I digress. I'd wanted to tell you how I'd been using Google like a library to search for an article I'd written by putting my name in the search bar. Instead of finding eloquent prose from an irreverent, glass-half-full writer with hardly any hair, I'd found links to superlative work by other blokes with the same name.

There were articles by Andy Richardson, the sports present for Al Jazeera – and no, I'm not making this up. He's worked for ITV, Sky, Five, reporting on Football World Cups and marathons at the North Pole. Nice work, fella.

And then I found another Andy Richardson who apparently once worked here before jumping ship to work for a rubbish newspaper in Birmingham. Poor man. The most recent post I found about him eulogised a story about Bar Sport's Bikini Contest, which is nice work if you can get it. Toot toot.

And then, more impressively, I found an Andy Richardson who'd just become editor of the Northern Echo, having previously worked as a PR for railway and electric companies. Congratulations, sir.

I will never know what it is to ascend to such dizzy heights but a memo to my sort-of-but-not-really line manager has been sent, suggesting that all future bylines are written thus: By the Fourth Best Andy Richardson.

My sort-of-but-not-really line manager was the inspiration for b). Having been asked to carry out an annual staff appraisal, they'd feigned a twisted eyelash and made themselves unavailable.

Helpfully, I suggested carrying out my own and wrote:

Works hard.

Doesn't say much.

Unusually committed to work.

Anti-social.

Maverick.

Writes well.

Gets lots of off-diary stuff.

Self-motivated and creative, especially when left alone.

Likes being part of a team – though prefers to be on the periphery.

The eyelash-twister offered a succinct response: Ha Ha.

And then there was column c) in which I'd planned to reflect on the importance of making the most of time with our loved ones and letting them know how much they mean to us. Which is a good idea, right?

But instead, Margaret came to me in a dream and gave me a story that outstripped all of those that the other Andy Richardsons might offer and dazzled my sort-of-but-not-really line manager with its brilliance. Quick, go tell circulation. Boom. Boom. Exclusive. Exclusive. Exclusive.