Who am I again?

I've heard it all now.  Get this:

(Phone rings)

Me: Hello

Female Caller (in urgent tone): JEAN?

Me: No, sorry you've got the wrong number.

Caller: Is this (states my phone number)?

Me: Yes, that's this number but there's no one called Jean here.

Caller: Well who are you then?

Me: Erm......I don't really want to say 'cause I don't know who you are.

Caller: Well YOU called me!

Me: Um, no.  YOU called me...

Bizarre Caller: YOU called me!!

Me (getting really actually fucking testy): NO.  YOU.  CALLED.  ME  and there is NO ONE called Jean here.  If there were I think I'd bloody well know it but there isn't, ALRIGHT pal?

Bizarre Caller (sounding really rather pleasant and normal all of a sudden): Oh ok, sorry to disturb you.

?

??

I turned to look at a quizical looking housemate, shaking my head slowly and we had a bit of a laugh.  I mean, who gets a wrong number from someone who then sees fit to argue with you over it?  I then started to reflect on how certain the woman sounded on the phone. 

It made me doubt. 

I've gone wrong haven't I?  I recognise this but my unhelpful inner voice is a complete fucking nightmare.  I began to worry that I really was called Jean and that I had Alzheimer's and was just coming out of a fantasy world and back into reality which was ME/Jean, aged 86, sitting in my own piss in some cheap old folks home and the reality of my current life was all fake.  Perfect, fucking perfect.  My whole life is just the mad ramblings of some dementia riddled old woman who couldn't even create a decent fucking fantasy world to disappear into.  Couldn't Jean have imagined me to have decent hair at least?  Couldn't her shrunken brain have provided me with more money and some sex?  Oh god, the sex.  Trust me to have been imagined by some prudish rambling old duffer who couldn't even have a filthy few minutes which had been dragged up from her memory banks for me? 

Yeah, thanks Jean for setting my beloved '71 VW Beetle on fire whilst I was driving it. 

Thanks for the death of Batdog and Batfool. 

Thanks for the lack of sex (I keep coming back to this one don't I?). 

Thanks for that disastrous gig at Komedia when I puked everywhere beforehand and went on stage a bit sorta delirious and completely forget my set. 

Oh, and thanks for the audience being just that bit too far away from the stage to engage with too. 

Oh yeah, THANKS Jean for consistently humiliating me through the medium of faeces.

Thank you for giving me some bizarre phobias that not even I can understand (certain round things.  Possibly organic round things but not berries or normal round things.  See, even I don't know what's going to set me off!)

I've often wondered why I've made some bizarre decisions in my life.  The sort of decisions that I later wonder what the hell possessed me to make.  I get it now, I'm the figment of some one's dying brain. 

Shit......