Back in the 1990s, I recall some tradesmen (tradies, as we call them) were doing some work on my street, about three houses down. One of them has partially parked in front of my driveway, so I can’t pull out (I have tall hedges on both sides).

Me: *Approaching the group of tradies.* “Excuse me, gents, but whoever of you drives that car there, could they move it somewhere else? It’s blocking my drive, and I can’t get out.”

Tradie: “That’s me, mate, but that’s the only place I could park on the street that’s free.”

Me: “Well, I know that’s annoying, but—”

Tradie: *Starts up a power tool to drown me out.*

Me: *Shouting.* “—I gotta get to work, so—”

Tradie: “Can’t hear ya, mate!”

Me: “Maybe if you turned off the power tool, you would.”

Tradie: *Laughing with his mates.* “Like this c*** knows what a power tool is!”

I sigh and walk back to my driveway, past my car, and into my garage. I walk back out with a fuelled-up chainsaw, start it up, and start walking to the part of his car that’s blocking me in. The tradies have all turned to look my way thanks to the sound of my very loud chainsaw. The owner of the vehicle starts running over.

Me: “Power tools like this?!”

Tradie: “Jesus f****** Christ mate! I’m moving it! I’m moving it!”

They didn’t park within three houses of me the rest of the time they were working there.

Growing up in the early 2000s, my dad was the system operations lead for a major institution. He was on call constantly, and he had a work-from-home setup decades before this was a normal service that you could simply buy out of a box.

He worked with this organisation, with the same boss, for decades. The boss was on the other side of the country from us, but he and Dad were fast friends. It was to the point that I grew up calling him ‘Uncle Boss’. And the fact that dad had this WFH setup meant that Uncle Boss WAS a part of my life too.

Whenever he had to work on the weekend, the boss was also there beside him, halfway across the country.

Whenever I was sick and had to stay home from school, Dad would work from home, and every single time, Uncle Boss would make sure to take a minute to tell me he hoped I would feel better soon. 

Once, when I was about 6 and VERY sick, Dad put his headphones on me while he had to step outside to deal with something in the front yard, and Uncle Boss kept me distracted by reading me a story.

I was also six years old when Uncle Boss came across the country for a conference, and he insisted on taking Dad’s whole family out to dinner.

It was a later dinner for me; I was cranky. So when my dad told me to “Say ‘hi’ to Uncle Boss”, I answered with all the scathing disgust that only a child who Knows They Are Right can:

Me: “That’s not Uncle Boss. Uncle Boss is a computer.”

Having never seen him in person before, and talking to him almost exclusively over the much-less-robust internet, I had logically come to the conclusion that my ‘uncle’ was a robot.

 I was six before I found out this was not the case.

This was prompted by this story:

When I was working at a bank, some colleagues said to my girlfriend and me that they would like to talk to us about a money-making opportunity at home. We reluctantly agreed, but only on the proviso that it wasn’t multi-level marketing. 

Well, it soon became clear on the day that it was indeed multi-level marketing. We weren’t pleased.

After having pointed out to them that the same shirts they were selling were available in [well-known department store] for half their price, the vitamins were really no different from other vitamin brands, and so on, they came to demonstrate the superiority of their bleach.

They tried to compare it to another bleach, but I pointed out:

Me: “That thing is a ‘bleach brightener’, not a bleach.”

Colleague: “It’s the same thing.”

Me: “No, brightener is a noun adjunct. It’s no more the same thing as a car wash is the same as a car, or a door lock is the same as a door. Look at the ingredients, there’s not a thing in there that’s an oxidiser, it’s a digester. You can’t compare them.”

This is where the other story comes in. I don’t normally talk about my degrees, but this guy, annoyed, said:

Colleague: “Oh, and I suppose you have a degree in chemistry from Sydney University?”

I went into the office, took it down off the wall, came back, and said:

Me: “Yes, here it is!”

I do not work on my birthday. Period. I am fifty-two years old and have been working since I turned fifteen (then, the legal age in Australia), and I have NEVER worked on my birthday. Xmas, New Year, Easter – couldn’t give a toss, happy to work, but I. Do. Not. Work. On. My. Birthday.

So, I was working in my twenties in a grocery bakery, and I put in my one-day leave application three months ahead of time (the requirement is four weeks’ notice, so I am WAY ahead of it), and I got verbal approval.

Two weeks before, the manager suddenly took me aside and said:

Manager: “I don’t think I’m going to be able to give you that day off.”

Huh.

Me: *Explaining politely.* “I gave more than the required notice, and that nobody else in the department was scheduled for that day off. I really insist on having that day off.”

We went back and forth for a bit until I eventually put my foot down.

Me: “Gary, I gave you three months’ notice for one day off. You told me yes. Now you’re telling me no. So, instead of having three months’ notice to fill my shift, you now have two weeks’ notice to fill my shift. OR, you can have one hour’s notice to fill my shift, at 4 AM in the morning, when I call in sick on the day. Because I. Will. Not. Be. Here. Your choice, boss.”

I got the day off.

I had a customer return a vacuum cleaner once, my supervisor did the return, thankfully. The box went back on the floor unchecked. The next customer who wanted to buy it checked it out before it was checked. They were back within hours.

Customer: “So, I don’t know what you need to do to your processes to avoid this happening again, but… well, look for yourself.

The whole f****** thing had been replaced with a catering-sized tin of beetroot.

There was much yelling at the supervisor by managers, and after that, all expensive returns had to be checked by two staff. Whenever any newbies would question the policy:

New Hire: “The box is sealed! Why do I have to check it?”

Me: “Do you really want to be visited by the beetroot fairy?!”

The beetroot fairy became our go-to explanation.