(My manager and I are approached by a regular customer who is notorious for being just downright nasty and mean-spirited. She doesn’t believe in donating to charity and always thinks we’re barmy for wanting to help others.)

Customer: “I can’t believe you served that man!”

Manager: “What?”

Customer: “I gave him money in the car park! He said it was for food or a bus or something, and he bought beer! You do know he’s a homeless alcoholic, don’t you?”

Me: “Well, what do you want us to do?”

Customer: “I can’t believe you served him! You shouldn’t have let him buy alcohol! I feel violated!”

(The manager realizes she may be angling for a refund of the gentleman’s beer money.)

Manager: “Unfortunately, ma’am, we are not in control of what happens away from our premises. If he asked you for money and you gave it to him, then that is only your fault. Now, if there’s nothing we can help you with, please have a pleasant Halloween.”

Customer: “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU LET HIM ABUSE MY MONEY!”

(The customer storms out. The manager turns to me.)

Manager: “I don’t believe for a minute that she gave him money; she’s just trying to cause trouble. She’s probably got a problem with us for being in fancy dress for charity, too!”

(The ‘X-Men: Days of Future Past’ trailer has just been released online. I’m watching it for the first time with my mum. It comes to the part where it briefly shows a clip of young Professor X cupping Wolverine’s face closely to read his mind. I immediately crack up laughing.)

Mum: “What’s so funny? It seems kind of touching.”

Me: “Exactly. I’m just imagining the amount of shipping that this movie will create.”

(“Shipping” is romantically pairing characters together. I’ve explained this kind of thing to my mum before.)

Mum: *rolls eyes* “You and your weird websites.”

Me: “Shh, I’m listening for the sound of ship fan-fictions being typed on keyboards…”

(I am kissing and cuddling with my girlfriend. I want to get up, but she won’t let me in her sleepy state. She finally caves and rolls to the side, still pinning my arm and side down as we kiss some more.)

Girlfriend: “I thought you wanted to get up?”

Me: “I do. You’re still on top of me.”

(My four-year-old daughter comes up to me while she is playing.)

Daughter: “I’ve got something in my pants!”

Me: “Er, what is it?”

Daughter: “LEGO!”

(I work in an election office. It’s the afternoon on Election Day, and we’ve been in a call center since 6 am, telling citizens where their designated polling place is and explaining how closed primaries work. The phone rings.)

Me: “Hello, county elections, how may I help you?”

Citizen: “I’ve been to three different polling places today, and they all say I’m in the wrong place!”

Me: “Can I have your name? I’ll look up your polling place for you.”

(The citizen gives their name.)

Me: “It looks like your polling place is [Elementary School].”

Citizen: “I’ve already been to three other places! How was I supposed to know that’s where my polling place was?”

Me: “Well, we sent you a card a few weeks ago with your polling place on it. It should also be on the voter card that was mailed when you registered to vote at your address.”

Citizen: “I have three kids! I don’t have time to read my mail!”

Me: “In addition, we’ve listed all the polling places in the local paper for the last two weeks, and you could look up your polling place online at [website]. We’ve also had pamphlets at the local library. Or you could have called this number before you went to three different polling places.”

Citizen: “That’s unacceptable! I want someone to come to my house on the morning of election day with a van and say, ‘Mrs. [Name], this is where you vote!'”

Me: “Uh…”

(And that’s how democracy dies.)