That reminds me somehow of my time in Glasgow. I was waiting for a pal in George Square and this drunk down and out, who would not look out of place in a Rab C. Nesbitt series, shuffled over my way and simultaneously touching his forad or hat brim uttered "'Scuse, sir Ammn an alki." I was a little compromised by being cornered on the one hand and being elevated to a Sir on the other. "Cud ye see yur wey to letting mi have a fuw pence. Ammn an Alki, see."
I replied in my best fake scots accent, "Nay, I canna be dooen, Ammn veerie sorry!"
"Ah thaits auw-rite ammn vey soorey to ha botherd ye." he shuffled towards back to his bench.
I became immediately consumed with the most frightful feelings of abject guilt. I immediately and sheepishly emptied the entire contents of my pockets and cupped two hands around around a few pounds of assorted loose change. "Luk, ye can ave that." said I.
He turned and gratefully received my penance, "Yer aye real gent so ye ahr," then regained his seat next to his freind and deftly reached into his overcoat and pulled a three quarter full (or conversely, one quarter empty) bottle of whiskey, removed its top, gulped a few mouths full down his gullet and continued his conversation with his friend; I ceased to exist. I'd been expertly played.