Oh, and ˈthis is \Mary, | a\nother colleague.
I’ve got ˈMr /Bun, | the /baker, | and ˈMrs \Plod, | the po\liceman’s wife.
In another kind of apposition (or something similar), one of the elements is more like a title. In this case the two parts are usually placed within a single IP.
the ˈsculptor ˈHenry \Moore
my ˈman \Jeeves (= my servant J.)
In yet a third type the second element is more or less redundant as far as information content is concerned. Unsurprisingly, in view of this, it is typically deaccented.
ˈWhat’s the ˈname of that \writer chappie? (| The ˈone you were \talking about.)
ˈWho's this \Smith fellow?
I was reminded of this type of apposition (or whatever) when reading the story “The Aunt and the Sluggard” in P.G. Wodehouse’s, My Man Jeeves, 1919 (free download on my Kindle).
Jeeves is my man, you know. Officially he pulls in his weekly wages for pressing my clothes and all that sort of thing; but actually he’s more like what the poet Johnnie called some bird of his acquaintance who was apt to rally round him in times of need — a guide, don’t you know; philosopher, if I remember rightly, and — I rather fancy — friend. I rely on him at every turn.
Here, the construction the poet Johnnie is not like the poet Milton or the poet Keats. Johnnie is not the poet’s name. It means no more than ‘fellow, chap’, implying that the hearer must be familiar with the poet although the speaker can’t for the moment recall his name. And Johnnie is not accented: the ˈpoet Johnnie.
In this phrase I can see that NNSs might be misled both into accenting Johnnie and into imagining that Johnnie was the name of a poet.
But then Wodehouse is full of traps for the NNS. He writes in a particularly idiomatic way — and in a colloquial idiom that is no longer to be heard in contemporary English.