GIVE HIM A BREAK:Kate Holmquist is away, so who better to take her place than her husband, Ferdia Mac Annawho explains how being a columnist's other half is taking its toll on his dignity.

I USED TO be a big player in this town. I could usually get a plate of chips at the Del Rio without having to make a reservation. I once had my car parked for me by a concierge who saw my band play the Baggot Inn in '82. The guys behind the counter in Freebird Records knew my name. It doesn't get much better than that.

Now all that has changed. Thanks to my wife.

Ever since my wife began writing a column for The Irish Times, things have grown weird.

I rarely read my wife's columns. She writes about important issues such as sex, social phenomena, interesting people and trends and Hillary Clinton. My interests are different. I read tabloids for the sports. I read The Irish Timesfor the soccer and The Ticket, and sometimes the arts stuff.

My wife has her world and I have mine, and that's the way it should be.

I should have heeded the warning signs. Such as the way that work colleagues, friends and acquaintances and sometimes people I scarcely knew, began to adopt a strange, different attitude to me. Once, I looked up from whatever I was doing to find a woman staring at me with big sympathetic eyes, as though studying a dog that had no idea it was about to receive a lethal injection. This came days after my wife's column on being married to a baby boomer who had just reformed his 1970s rock and roll band.

At first the comments were casual, even innocent - the kind of stuff that you could acknowledge with no more concern than an everyday exchange about the weather.

"I see your wife is giving the minister a hard time." Nod, brief smile. "That was a really moving piece your missus write about that poor family." Yes, very moving - it was great all right. "Very insightful piece by your wife about the children and fatty food issue."

Agree totally. Insightful is the word.

Then the remarks took on a more sinister hue. There was no appropriate response, except deep shock.

"I see your wife wishes she had two husbands." She what? "Are you still wearing a see-through bra strap around your head?" A reference to the stage gear I wear on stage when playing in my rock and roll band. The guys in Freebird loved that one.

A casual conversation at work was brought to a shuddering halt with: "Your wife is thinking of having an affair. You must have a great relationship."

I asked to see that particular column, but she told me it was a long while ago and that it was now "on the web" - which means, presumably, that millions more have read it.

Last week, though, was the cruncher.

I was entering a local second-hand bookshop when a man I didn't know blocked my way to make an announcement to the customers (two) and staff (one).

"Here comes a well-known man, but is he well known for himself, or because he is Mr Holmquist?"

There was a long pause while everyone waited to see my reaction.

Perhaps some men would have given in to the second-hand book store equivalent of road rage (paperback rage?), but I am cool under pressure. I gave the man a devil-may-care smile, strolled inside and picked up a slightly bruised paperback. I had read four chapters of PS, I Love Youbefore I had recovered my dignity.

Of course, I blame myself. When we got married, 150 years ago, she had wanted to take my surname as is traditional but I, the liberated modern man, said no. I had wanted her to keep her own name on the grounds that it was her identity.

However, I get letters addressed to Mr Holmquist on average twice a week. Doctor's secretaries call me by my wife's surname, as do taxi drivers. My wife has a direct line to the world in which she has casually, but perhaps irreversibly, altered my identity and with it, my place in the world.

Now I know how Guy Ritchie feels. He must get sick of people telling him how much they have enjoyed Madonna's workout videos. No matter how many movies he makes, people will think of him as Mr Madonna. I bet that nobody calls Madonna "Mrs Ritchie".

Where I come from, a bloke's identity is important. A man needs to feel free to reinvent himself whenever the urge (or the midlife crisis) takes him. Having someone else reinvent you without your permission is just not rock and roll.

Somehow, I am managing to cope. I have given up wearing an eyepatch made out of a black bra on stage. I am careful to enter second-hand book stores only when there is nobody about, and I no longer answer the telephone. I refuse to open the door to taxi drivers.

From now on, I have insisted that there should be no further references to me in my wife's columns - not that I expect this to have any effect. She's on a roll, why should she stop now? Besides, the source material is too rich.

Maybe I should have heeded my wife's wishes all those years ago. I am also thinking of arranging a second marriage where my wife can finally adopt my name. But I'm thinking it might have to be a different wife.