(I work in a store that sells kitchen utensils. A customer has put some items on the counter, including a packaged knife. The knife is a very bright colour, and as she puts it down, her four-year-old daughter reaches out to grab it.)

Customer: “No, honey. I have to pay for it first, but you can play with it when we get home.”

Me: “Excuse me, but that’s a knife, not a toy.”

Customer: “I know it’s a knife; it’s one of those plastic ones. She can have it.”

Me: “No, it’s a real knife. It’s very sharp; it will cut her.”

Customer: “No, it’s plastic. Look at the colour.”

Me: “That’s a painted-on coating. Look right on the edge; you can see the metal edging of the blade.”

Customer: “Oh, well, what’s that for? It’s obviously plastic.” *points to a separate plastic item in the package*

Me: “That’s the scabbard, to protect and cover the blade.”

Customer: “Oh. We don’t want it, then.” *turns to daughter* “You can’t have the knife, because the mean lady said so.”

(My friend has taken ill, and has gotten a bit delirious as we are waiting for the ambulance. I have been rubbing her feet, and have felt her pulse on the top of her foot.)

Friend: *clutching at her chest, in a panicked voice* “[My Name], are you there?”

Me: “Yes, I’m here.”

Friend: “I can’t feel my heart!”

Me: “It’s all right; it’s there.”

Friend: “I can’t feel it; can you feel it? Put your hand here.”

(I don’t necessarily want to feel my friend’s chest.)

Me: “It’s all right; I felt it in your foot.”

Friend: “In my foot? Oh, good. I’m glad I didn’t lose it.”

(We’re a store that supplies medieval needs for re-enactors, film, and theater. The phone rings and I pick it up.)

Me: “[Store], this is [My Name]. What can we do for you today?”

Customer: “Hi! We’re doing a film. I need a pair of helmets and armour with a whitish look, like from The Hunger Games. How much is that?”

Me: “That’s not an off-the-shelf product. We’d have to make those.”

Customer: “Why not?”

Me: “I guess because none of the larger manufacturers have bothered to get a license, or because it’s a design the costume designer didn’t want to sell rights to.”

Customer: “Can you make them?”

Me: “Yeah, we do custom work. I’ve read the books, but never saw the movies, so I’d need you to send through some pictures. I also need your measurements fo—”

Customer: “I’m a large.”

Me: “A large in what size system?”

Customer: “My size.”

(I’m already face-palming at this point, but I press on. A lot of the theater and film people are difficult to deal with, but pay well.)

Me: “And these are both for you?”

Customer: “What? No. They’re for the actors.”

Me: “Right. I’ll need them to come in for a fitting, then. I can get your deposit at the same time, too.”

Customer: “I’m not paying for it unless it’s right.”

Me: “Considering I have to go and buy specific leather for this, you ARE paying for at least that much up fro—”

Customer: “No, I w—”

Me: “YES! You will. If you want our service, that part is non-negotiable! “

Customer: “Hey, man, I’m trying to do you a favour here. People will see your work in my movie.”

(My eyes are rolling hard enough to make them ache at this point.)

Me: “I appreciate that, mate, but I’ve got plenty of my work in movies, which is why I can afford to be the one to set the terms. Now, I’ll need you to come in with the actors so I can take some measurements, then call [Tannery] and get them to deliver.”

Customer: “Fine! I have to say, you’re being really unprofessional here. How long is it all going to take?”

Me: “If you’re willing to pay extra, they can do next day delivery, and if I work over the weekend, I can have it ready for you on Tuesday.”

Customer: “There’s not enough time for that. Why can’t you just make it? I thought you were meant to be a professional.”

Me: “Because I have to go and buy materials, cut, dye, and… wait. Not enough time. When do you need this by?”

Customer: “Oh, the shoot’s on Friday, in two days.”

(A friend has been telling us about his trip back to where he was born.)

Friend: “That sounds so sweet. It makes me think of that song, Green, Green Grass of Home.” *starts singing the first verse* “It’s such a lovely song.”

Me: “But that song is about an execution.”

Friend: “Where did you hear that from? No, it’s not; it’s a lovely song. I’ve been singing it for years.”

Me: “Try singing the last verse.”

Friend: *singing* “Then I awake and look around me,

At four grey walls that surround me,

And I realize, yes, I was only dreaming,

For there’s a guard and there’s a sad old padre,

Arm in arm, we’ll walk at daybreak,

Again I touch the green, green grass of home.”

*stops singing*  “What’s wrong with that?”

Me: *internally face-palming* “Four grey walls are a prison cell. A guard and a padre?”

Friend: “That could be anything.”

Me: “Okay, what about the last line?”

Friend: “He’s lying under the old oak tree.”

Me: “They lay him under the grass by the old oak tree.”

Friend: “Holy s***; why didn’t I notice that? I was going to sing this song at the old folks home next week.”

(I work at a deli which makes all its sandwiches in the morning, and sells them until they run out. We do not make sandwiches on demand.)

Customer: “Hey, could you make me a ham and cheese bagel?”

Me: “Sorry, sir, we only have what’s in the cabinet right now.” *points to the three salmon bagels we have left*

Customer: “Oh, okay.”

Customer: “…so, could you make me a ham and cheese panini?”