I work as a vet. Our computer system is set up so that we can submit our clients’ insurance claims for their visits directly to their insurer — just a few clicks to submit the notes and the invoice, minimal hassle for everyone. We don’t have any way of knowing whether or not the claim gets accepted or rejected unless the client lets us know.

Client: “The claim for Fluffy’s [condition] got rejected.”

Me: “Ah, that’s a bugger. We had discussed that it might not get through because it would probably be considered pre-existing, but at least we gave it a go and know for the future.”

Client: “Yeah, sure, but what did you write in the submission claim? Like, the wording?”

Me: “I just submitted my clinical record. There aren’t any notes we write in addition to that.”

Client: “But what did you say Fluffy had?”

Me: “[Condition]. Which is what he has.”

Client: “Do you think you could resubmit it but write that he has [similar condition, which has similar symptoms but is treated differently]?”

Me: “Uh, no.”

Client: “Why not? It’s easy; just change a couple of words and it’s all good. Then it might get approved.

Me: “[Client], I will explain this very clearly to you. The clinic system locks the records after a certain time frame because they are classed as legal documents. Any changes to said documents after the fact would be grounds for me to face disciplinary action from my professional regulator. And very simply, what you are asking me to do is commit insurance fraud.”

Client: “Are you sure about that?”

Me: “Uh, yes, definitely fraud.”

Client: “So, you can’t do anything to get around it?”

Me: “No. I like my job. I’m not risking my licence.”

Client: “So, there’s really nothing you can do about this, then.”

Me: “[Client], stop asking. The answer is no. If you still don’t like it, you’re welcome to see one of my colleagues, but they will tell you the same thing, and your insurer already has the info anyway.”

Client: “…”

He wasn’t a client of ours for much longer. I can’t say he’ll be missed. Good luck and apologies to the next clinic who ended up with him.

When I was fifteen, I (very regrettably) fell on the “Twilight” bandwagon when it was first released. My parents were asking about this book I was suddenly obsessed with.

Dad: “So, [My Name], tell me about this new book.”

Me: “It’s about a vampire that falls in love with a human.”

Dad: “Doesn’t he want to eat her?”

Me: “Yes, that’s what it’s about. He loves her so much that he doesn’t eat her even though he really wants to.”

Dad: “So, it’s like me falling in love with a roast dinner.”

I’m an adult still living at home. I recently adopted a young Children’s python, a dream of mine ever since I was a little girl. My parents were hesitant at first, but soon, they all came around when they realized how small and docile he was. One sticking point, however, is his food. Like most snakes, he requires whole prey items, namely mice. Mum didn’t want to see whole mice in her freezer, so I got an opaque tupperware container to store them in.

I’ve just bought a packet and am in the process of transferring a few “hopper” or immature mice from the clear shop bag into the container when my mum decides to come make a cuppa. She’s managed to avoid seeing his food for months until now.

Mum: “Oh, no, look at them! They’re all just little babies, aren’t they?”

These “hopper” mice are basically babies almost ready to be weaned. They have fur, big dark eyes, and big oversized ears. If they weren’t frozen and vacuum-packed, they’d be cute, but they’re dead.

Me: “I thought the only good mouse was a dead mouse?”

Mum: “That’s rats! Mice are different.”

Me: “How?”

Mum: “Well, they’re just babies, aren’t they? They never had a chance to do anything!”

Me: “My noodle’s just a baby! You didn’t cry over our tea last night.”

Mum: “They’re just little babies!”

Me: “Mum, we had lamb shanks! Not sheep. Not mutton. Lamb! What’s the difference?”

Mum: “They’re just babies!”

Me: “You’re being a baby! He’s gotta eat something!”

She huffed, took her tea, and was off. I know snakes aren’t for everyone, but I honestly don’t see what makes his food so confronting for people. I guess it’s easy to forget that all of the meat we eat once had a cute little face when we buy it all precut and shrink-wrapped!

My parents are in their eighties and both are very active in their church, so much so that Dad often laments that he feels they are taken advantage of. Mum doesn’t see it that way, constantly telling us how much support she gets from the church. She always does more than her fair share; Dad is always there to support her.

It’s just before Christmas and they are running a fundraising stall at a local craft market. The weather is horrible; it’s very hot and humid, and the wind is threatening to blow their shade cover away. Dad is holding down one of the edges while Mum is making sure the stock isn’t flying away.

I notice one of the church ladies sitting in a chair in the middle of the stall as I approach. I choose to buy a couple of things. Mum serves me, and as she is counting out change, another customer approaches.

[Church Lady] doesn’t move from her chair.

Church Lady: “[Mum], there’s a customer.”

Mum is concentrating on getting my change, so the lady raises her voice more.

Church Lady: “[MUM]! There’s a customer!”

Mum quickly hands me my change and turns to serve the customer. I notice that this happens a few more times; she pretty much orders Mum to serve customers while never leaving her seat. I was going to head home but I decide to stay for a little while helping to tie the shade cover down and collect items that have blown off the table.

Dad: “Maybe we should pack up early. The wind is really picking up, and there’s a storm coming.”

Church Lady: “Yes, I think that’s a good idea. I think it’s definitely time to leave. This is so tiring.”

She stands up and grabs her bag.

Church Lady: “Okay, see you on Sunday.”

And then she left my parents to pack up the stall. Dad just shook his head as he started packing. Mum, as usual, couldn’t see a problem; she raved about how much help it was having the woman there. But for the hour and a half that I was there, the woman didn’t leave her seat.

My brother managed to pick up work at a racehorse training farm in New Zealand through a mate. This is his first visit back home, so Mum, Dad, and I all jump in Dad’s car and head over to the international airport to pick him up.

Mum and I are waiting inside the terminal while Dad does laps outside since parking fees are absolutely insane here if you’re not booking the car park for multiple days.

This is during the G20 Leaders’ Summit, so international airports are on higher alert than usual across the globe due to increased risk of terrorism threats. Even in Australia, where terrorism threats aren’t exactly the norm, the major airports aren’t messing around with their security protocols. We pass through the security checkpoints and go through the expected rigmarole of tests and questions without issue, find some seats, and settle in to wait for my brother’s flight to land.

Mum has found a new song she is into and starts bopping in her seat and humming the tune quietly, despite the song not actually playing from any of the speakers. I give her a strange side-eye, recognising the song as “Geronimo” by Sheppard. You know the one. “So say geronimo! Say geronimo! Say geronimo!” (You’re welcome.)

Then, she gets to the part where the chorus repeats, “Bombs away,” and she is no longer humming.

I’m now openly ogling her with a “WTF are you doing?!” look plastered across my face just as a security guard approaches doing his rounds. As he comes into hearing range, Mum switches over to, “Say geronimo!” and sings more softly. She watches the security guard as he passes, singing softly all the while, and once he’s past and out of range again, she picks up the volume and switches back to “bomb’s away”.

Me: “Mum! What are you doing?! You’re going to get us arrested!”

Mum: “[My Name], you do realise they probably have microphones all over the place, right? It’s the international airport, and the G20 is on; if it was an issue, we would already be detained.”

I open and close my mouth like a fish out of water for a few moments, trying to grasp the absurdity of this statement.

Me: “You realise that doesn’t make it any better, right?! If anything, it’s even more inappropriate!”

Mum: “Nah, I’m sure they know the difference between a serious discussion about an act of terrorism and a joke. Besides, it’s a good song.”

She then started singing again.

We didn’t get detained, my brother arrived on time, and we were able to leave without even so much as a suspicious glance from security staff. But seriously, time and place, Mum!