To Pete, 'posh' was some sort of froofy butt cushion that a royal pain in the arse would sit on. Of course, he knew what the word actually meant. But that would have been his super sarcastic reply had he been telepathic and known what she was thinking about him. He wasn't posh. He was from Essex, born and raised in working class conditions. And at least he hadn't been on the dole, so his employment was consistent. It was enough to afford a few nicely tailored suits and a decent flat. On the surface, he doesn't resemble a total scumbag. All the scummy bits are contained in his warm and fuzzy insides.
"Too right, you are," Mr. Sensitive bluntly told her, right before he gave her a staring at like she had gone half mad. That was when he had to remind himself that nothing in his life was as routine as his work habits, and that ending up in another realm entirely wasn't exactly the picture of normalcy. No wonder she was dressed funny.
"I think it's the year we're in Asgard, which is about as normal as that time I was kicked into a fucking lake and ended up in Camelot." He is, sadly enough, not even fabricating that fact. "So. You're a time traveler. That sounds like a right pain in the arse. Don't you have some sort of contraption to dial back where you're going, or is there no choice in the matter?"