Two Martin Kovacs, Row 14

Both of us were rebooked. Hold that detail: neither Martin Kovac was supposed to be on that plane. My original flight was cancelled for a crew issue; his connection had been missed because of fog. Two apologetic gate agents, two meal vouchers, one substitute aircraft.

At boarding, the agent scanned my pass, frowned, and said there seemed to be a duplicate — a Martin Kovac already boarded. There followed the small comedy of officials establishing that two men can share a name, and I proceeded to 14B to find 14A occupied by a man about my age doing a crossword.

'Martin?' I said. 'Depends who's asking,' he said, which is exactly what I would have said.

We compared boarding passes for the crew's benefit and our own disbelief. Kovac, Martin. Kovac, Martin. Then, because the flight was long and the situation demanded it, we compared everything else. Birthday: same day, same year — he is older by, we worked out from our mothers' accounts, roughly six hours. Both engineers, different flavours. Both left-handed. Both married to teachers. His son is called the name I had shortlisted for mine.

The crew got involved, then invested; a flight attendant took our passports side by side into the galley 'to show Sandra' and came back saying Sandra needed a moment.

Not everything aligned, before you diagnose us as one man having an episode: different birthplaces four hundred kilometres apart, no genealogical overlap we could find — we have since had the ancestry tests, because obviously we stayed in touch — and he cannot cook while I can. The DNA says strangers. The calendar and the manifest say otherwise.

We meet each birthday now, alternating cities. Two cakes, one date. The waiters never believe the reservation, made, both times, under Kovac, Martin — and honestly, neither do we.