Walking to meet Fiona and Jerome in Stoke Newington last weekend on a sunny summers day, a man behind me started yelling:
“OI!! YOU!! SPOTTY!!” (except with his thick Cockney accent, it was more like ‘Spoh-ee’)
The hairs on my neck bristled slightly. I was currently wearing a spoh-ee t-shirt!! No one else in this lonely (actually, it was quite busy) road was wearing a spoh-ee t-shirt, nor was anyone particularly acne-covered. He was talking to me!
Terrified (not really, but I’ll say I was for dramatic effect) I walked on.
Again: “AY!!! SPOH-EE!!!!!”
There was no avoiding it.
I turned around to face the owner of the voice.
A toothless man in a flannel shirt, clutching a can of Stella was behind me, with his mate (or as he might have said “wif ‘is mate”) and…. his large dalmatian pooch. His large, spoh-ee dalmatian pooch.
“Hehe” he laughed “you fort I was talking to you but I was talking to me dog”.
Well played, toothless dog-owner. Well played.