Today I stopped to pet a cat.
There is nothing extraordinary about this. I often stop to pet other people's cats because mine died, leaving my life bereft of catness.
I sat down on the ground. I was wearing scrubby jeans, trainers, and a black fleece hoodie -- my usual goin' to the library, hanging out around campus comfy atire. The catness, a plump female tabby with a rather stumpy tail and agreeable disposition, was situated comfortably on the pavement next to me purring her approval of my finely-honed belly-rubbing technique.
A well-dressed gentleman with a John Steed-style brolly approached, looked down at me, and said, "Sorry, I don't have any change."
That's the second time this term I've been mistaken for homeless, I thought. "That's ok, mate," I told him. "I don't mind paper."