Envy and Embarrassment

Last night's writers' group was at Bozo5's place. Now I am a big, BIG fan of the balconies around my own house, if they weren't around my house, I'd be dead jealous of them, especially now that we have our Ikea over-the-balcony-rail drop-down table.
But Bozo's balcony is something to be envied too. The view is heart stopping - as you can see - and he has totally wicked neighbours.
WHAT? I deliberately didn't use out-of-date word 'awesome' so that I could use out-of-date word 'wicked'.
His neighbours apparently sit out on their balcony and harass passers-by with poochies who look as though they aren't picking up after them. He mentioned this since that was what I was doing at the time. Not pooping, you understand, but harassing a passer-by with a pooch who had assumed the position.
Bozo also lent me a book, retrieved from his lock-up that he'd been back to England and cleared out, thus a one that couldn't be sent to recycling. (Been there, done that, it's harsh).
One of those books that I'd always been meaning to read and yet somehow never had. And instantly addictive it is, just from the style of writing and the quirky lower middle-class life it depicts.
Jeanette Winterson's 'Oranges are not the Only Fruit'. So far, so bloody brilliant.

How embarrassing is this?
Whichever one of us at work who does the meet, greet and seat for the programme, looks at the book on her way out, finds out the teacher's name and then tells the other who's already over there.
'Teacher's called Mrs. Simpleton,' hisses assistant J.
'No way,' say I, or something similar (and out-of-date).
'I know, but that IS what she's called, no doubt about it,' then there follows a short, whispered convo about embarrassing names, J knew someone from school with such a name, but couldn't remember what the name was.
Then the teacher came with my group and I couldn't bring myself to call her Mrs. Simpleton, although at one point I had to say her name, but managed to avoid it thereafter.

When I got back to the office, I looked at the book. Mrs. Singleton was her name. It turned out that J had forgotten to look, asked the teacher, and misheard.
I was so embarrassed, I rang the school and asked to speak to her. The secretary couldn't find her but asked if she could take a message.
'Well here's my dilemma,' I said, 'see if you can make it into a message.' I swear she was pissing herself at the end of the 'phone.

Eventually the teacher herself rang back, said she hadn't even noticed and that it has happened to her before. She enjoyed the programme very much. She was also pissing herself.
Just as well really.