The Girl with Yellow Teeth

Last night, before I reached the walled garden, I was stopped on Western Road by a half familiar woman. I say half-familiar because I have a curious inability to remember faces, even well known ones. Conversely, this means that strangers often seem familiar.
I stopped. She was young, twenty maybe, and as soon as she opened her mouth to speak, the bright-yellow of her teeth served as the inevitable warning signal;
'What it is right - I'm really worried - I locked myself out and I need... (don't remember what she said next) ...I just need to catch the bus, so I need 63 pence-'
I interrupted her.
'Sorry, I aint got-'
But she walked away. I heard her go to the person behind me; 'What it is right - I'm really worried...'
I walked on myself, leaving me to puzzle why the four words I said to her were, for no reason at all, spoken in a sub-Cockney accent.