As I'm walking to work

Today, my post isn't a rant, a shared experience about my kids or a political outburst, it's just an observation - and not even an interesting one really.

Since I started walking to work six months ago, I pass a handful of the same people. I recognise their face, their walk - even their outfits (which are often on weekly rotation).
I know they recognise me too, and I often feel like we are already friends and should exchange pleasantries. I've even given them names.

Scruffy - a mid 30s guy who wears t-shirts with stupid slogans. He has long hair, unkempt beard and sneakers.

Jonathon - smart grey suit with a pastel tie. Sometimes a briefcase. He looks like a newly graduated medical student.

Shazza - Fake D&G rhinestone baseball cap, skinny jeans, platform sandals and bleached hair. Always with a cigarette hanging out of her lipsticked mouth she's on her way to the methadone clinic. I'm a little scared of her.

Amber - Immaculately dressed in designer clothes. Perfect hair, expensive shoes. I'm sure she is an escort.

Glynn - male, Irish looking nurse in scrubs

I also pass a dozen council workers who are armed with cigarettes and coffee at the local street cafe. I don't often feel uncomfortable in public, but every morning these guys stop talking for a few seconds and stare as I pass. Now, I'm not being egotistical (they do this to every woman), but it's become a little bit of a 'wardrobe assessment' for me. As I'm approaching the cafe, I feel myself start to wonder if these nameless, highlighter-yellow emblazoned chested men think what I'm wearing cuts the mustard. I slow down my walk (lest I trip, which I'm very prone in doing) and look straight ahead, holding my breath.
Once I walk past, I exhale and hope I haven't tucked my skirt into my undies.

Yes, I am a strange woman.