While as an L-Plater — meaning I am on my Learner’s Permit — I am driving with my instructor past a school. The school-zone speed limit is 40 kilometers per hour, and it is now 2:50 pm, meaning the school-zones kicked in a full 20 minutes ago. There are signs in specific areas, some of which are flashing, and huge “40” and “slow down” indicators painted on the road beneath us, impossible to miss.

I am driving past a bus bay that is separated from the main street by a grass island when a car comes up behind and beeps his horn at us. As I am driving at the correct school-zone speed limit, I don’t speed up, and he beeps his horn again. He then proceeds to drive over the curb, over the grass island, and into the bus bay, taking that road around and ending up in front of us. He then rolls down his window, gives us the middle finger, and speeds away over the hill.

My instructor is shocked, but tells me to not let drivers like that impact me and that if in the future I do decide to it is necessary to exceed a speed limit, the ones I should always stick to regardless are the school-zones, because it is not worth putting a child’s life in danger like that.

We then drive up the hill, and once we get to the top, I see flashing red and blue lights. As we drive past, the car is stopped on the side of the road with a policeman at the window. The driver sees our car, and then quickly looks away sheepishly as the policeman berates him. I look at my instructor, who continues to stare straight ahead, this time with a small smile on his lips.

Karma really is a b****.

(Within a few months of starting my job, I develop a latex allergy. Because I need to wear gloves to collect samples, my boss orders in some nitrile gloves for me. They are only for me to use because of the higher price compared to the latex gloves. A few months later, I start getting horrible itching on my hands during work. It sometimes spreads to my face and arms, and gets so bad I need to jump in the shower the moment I get home and scrub myself raw to try and make it stop. After a process of elimination, I figure out the source and go to my boss.)

Me: “So, you know how I’ve been itching lately?”

Boss: “Yeah.”

Me: “I think I know why, and if I’m right, you’re not going to like it. I think I’m allergic to the nitrile gloves, as well. I need to test it out.”

Boss: “Oh, my God, you’re so bloody precious.”

(I was allergic to the nitrile. I now have vinyl gloves and strict orders not to develop any more allergies.)

(Our clinic gives out a Privacy Consent form to new patients, making them aware that the information given will be forwarded to their doctor when results are ready, and to medicare to claim their Bulk Billing. Our clipboards usually have about fifty forms on them, all the same. A patient comes to the desk with one and hands it to me.)

Patient: *cheerily* “Finally. Here you go.”

Me: “Thank you! Have a seat.”

(I take the top one off and get ready to scan it into his file when I notice the second is filled out, as well.)

Me: “How many did you…”

Coworker #1: *whispers* “Just let it go.”

(I flip through the forms. They are all filled out. Luckily there were only nine left on the clipboard. I’d hate to see what would have happened if there had been fifty like all the other clipboards. Not long after, [Coworker #2] is going through the draws beside me.)

Coworker #2: “I can feel your blood boiling.”

Me: “I just… I can’t. It’s… a shame. He was good-looking, as well. He’s just…. an idiot.”

(I’ve just arrived at work.)

Supervisor: “Morning. Can you hop onto a bulk register?”

Me: “Sure. Which one?”

Supervisor: “Doesn’t matter. Any of them will do.”

Me: “Any of them?”

Supervisor: “Any of them.”

(I walk up to the closest register: number eight, only a few feet away. I inform a pair of customers queuing at register seven, the only other staffed register, that I am opening and that they can start unloading their shopping on my belt, which they do. When a register isn’t in use, we park trolleys in them to stop customers leaving through them. When we go to open one, we usually just move the trolleys back to the trolley bay and are good to go. This time, however, I notice that the trolley has been chained to the register with a padlock.)

Me: “Uh, [Supervisor], is there a key to unlock this trolley so I can move it?”

Supervisor: “Why?”

Me: “So I can open up on register eight.”

Supervisor: “Register eight isn’t working today. Go on a different register.”

Me: “You did say, ‘any register.’”

Supervisor: “Obviously I meant any register except number eight. Open on six.”

(By now, of course, the customers had unloaded most of their shopping onto register eight’s belt, and were quite annoyed when I told them they’d have to load it all back into their trolley and move down to register six!)

(I work at a computer store in Newcastle around 1983 or ‘84. A customer comes in with an IBM compatible computer complete with monitor and keyboard.)

Customer: “Fix this piece of g**d*** s**t! It won’t read my floppy disks!”

Me: “Okay… and what exactly is it doing?”

Customer: “I put the disk in and turn it on, but it says, ‘Drive A is not ready.’”

(What was the problem, you may ask? The idiot didn’t take out the protective thingy for the disk drive! He angrily says to me:)

Customer: “Why didn’t I think of that?! F*** you and your misconceptions!”

(He left without his computer. Long story short, I got my first real computer for free, and I still have it!)