Be Warned: An Impostor is Among Us
I recently finished reading Oliver Darkshire's book Once Upon a Tome. Mr. Darkshire is an antiquarian bookseller at Sotheran's Rare Books in London. While I greatly enjoyed the book, I was deeply disturbed to read this passage:
"Of all the nice letters I've ever received, the ones I hold particularly close to my heart were sent from a mysterious stranger masquerading as the bookshop-owning angel Aziraphale from the novel Good Omens."
I do not understand why Mr. Darkshire describes me as being "from the novel Good Omens," as though I were some sort of fictional character. Setting that aside, however, it is unnerving to realize that a complete stranger is wandering the streets of London, writing letters and pretending to be me.
I can offer no proof, but I believe that the likely suspects can be narrowed down to a very short list.
A few years ago -- well, I suppose it was actually many years ago -- there was a book called History of New York. It was subsequently revealed that the author of this book, one Diedrich Knickerbocker, did not in fact exist. Perhaps "Mr. Knickerbocker" has moved on from creating fictional personas, and is now hijacking the identity of legitimate booksellers such as myself. (Regular readers will recall that I have previously commented on Mr. Knickerbocker: https://www.aziraphale.com/post/143753123162/a-curious-bit-of-satire-in-an-unvisited-corner-of)
Meanwhile, I have also been informed that there is a man named Buster Poindexter who is notorious for falsifying his identity. I have it on good authority that Mr. Poindexter has openly confessed that he is suffering from a personality crisis. It should also be noted that the name "poindexter" is often used to refer to someone who is enamored of books. Coincidence? I think not.
Another likely suspect -- or possibly "suspects," plural -- is a person or persons going by the name Pratchett Gaiman, or possibly Gaiman Pratchett. Again, I have no proof, but I have lost count of the times someone in the shop has asked me about so-and-so Gaiman or such-and-such Pratchett.
Finally, I cannot completely discount the possibility that my friend Crowley might be playing some sort of elaborate prank. He insists that this is not his doing, but it is just the sort of device that he would employ to rile me. He knows that pranks are anathema to me.