(My husband and I own a pub. While I am away interstate visiting family, a new security guard is hired. His job is mainly to check IDs and keep out or remove drunk people. Upon returning, I stop by to see my husband.)

Me: “Hi! You must be the new guard.”

Guard: “You can’t come in.”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Guard: “You’re pissed; you can’t come in.”

Me: “What? I haven’t even had a drink.”

Guard: “Bulls***. I can smell it on you. Now, leave before I call the cops.”

Me: “Look here. I don’t think you realize—“

Guard: “Are you deaf, as well as fat and ugly?! You’re not coming in. Now, waddle off before I call the cops.”

Me: “Listen here. Get [Husband] out here now!”

Guard: “You really are as stupid as you are fugly. F*** off or I’m calling the cops.”

(I pull out my phone and call the pub, as my husband would not likely answer his mobile.)

Husband: “[Pub], [Husband] speaking. How can I help you?”

Me: “Hey, babe, it’s me. The new guard isn’t letting me in. Can you come out, please?”

Guard: “Your pathetic little boyfriend isn’t going to get you in. I say who comes in, and a fat, ugly piece of s*** like you is not getting in. Now, f*** off before I kick both you and your boyfriend’s a**es.”

(My husband is still on the other end of the phone and hears everything. He and the other guard, who is working inside, come rushing out.)

Husband: “[Guard], what the h*** do you think you’re doing?”

Guard: “This woman is drunk and refuses to leave. I’m about to call the police.”

Husband: “No, you’re refusing to let a sober woman in, who also happens to be my wife and an owner of this pub. [Other Guard] will get your stuff; you’re banned from here for life.”

Guard: “But, but… I didn’t know she was your wife. That’s not fair!”

Husband: *now practically shaking with anger* ”It doesn’t matter if it’s my wife or another patron; you should never speak to anyone the way you just did. You’re lucky she hasn’t kicked your a** for it. Now, I suggest you apologize before she does or calls the cops for threatening her.”

Guard: “Umm… I’m sorry. Please don’t fire me.”

Husband: “Too late. You’ll be lucky to get another job after this gets out. You need to get off our property. Go to your car and [Other Guard] will bring out your stuff. You’re hereby banned from here.”

(The guard walked to his car while calling me various names and yelling how this was all my fault. Over the next week, he kept ringing the pub and when I’d answer he’d threaten me. Also, my windshield was smashed, the side of my car was keyed, and my tires were slashed — all caught on the CCTV cameras. Eventually, he was charged with malicious damage and making death threats. He was sentenced to eight months in jail and lost his security license.)

I retired at age sixty, not rich, but comfortable. I lived alone in my house, as my wife had passed and my kids moved out long before. But instead of downsizing, as everyone tried to convince me to do, I decided to take a different path. I converted my basement into a small bachelor-style apartment. Very small. It had just a kitchenette, bathroom with shower, laundry room, and one living space. I got the basics that someone would need: microwave, towels, plates and bowls, and a few food items.

I then started visiting some local charities, a soup kitchen, and a homeless shelter. I volunteered a few times, but spent time getting to know a few people that were in need. After talking to one particular man, I decided to put my retirement scheme into action, and offer for him to stay in my basement apartment to get him back on his feet. He was obviously thrilled and grateful, and we wrote up a rental agreement: three months for free followed by three months at a very small price — about the cost of a single night in a decent hotel — if he hadn’t found something better by then. The only real limits I put in were that he was to be the only tenant, and I would enter to use the laundry once a week at an agreed time.

It started fantastically. My new tenant and I were becoming friends, and he was getting his life sorted out. He got a job within walking distance. He began to look healthier and happier. After three months, he said he would rather stay, which was fine by me, and he paid the agreed rent for month number four. Then, it started to fall apart.

He stopped talking to me when we crossed paths. He began to complain when I used the laundry, even though I never did it unannounced. When rent for month five came around, he complained that it should still be free and paid only part of the agreed price. As month six arrived, I found out he had no intention of leaving or paying. I’m not sure what changed, or why. I’m convinced there was no alcohol or drug use. But he became angry with me, saying that I should have done more if I really wanted to help him.

After seven months, and being paid rent for only one and a half of them, I had to evict him. It required the presence of police and the changing of locks, and afterward, he came by the house at random times for weeks. It was an indescribable nightmare.

I had originally intended to do the same thing for a different needy person every year, having the tenant during the cold Canadian months. But this was four years ago, and I haven’t had a tenant since.

(My friend — a rather tattooed and pierced young woman — and I have stopped to pick up some food on our way home from shopping. We’ve ordered and are sitting patiently waiting for our order to be called out. Both members of staff are in the back making our food. The door opens and a schoolgirl walks in, wearing her school uniform half unbuttoned, her hair in a beehive tied with a leopard-print scarf, and a “Monroe” piercing.)

Schoolgirl: “Hey! How much is a steak burger? Hello! Hello! How much is a steak burger?! I want a steak burger!”

(One staff member comes to the counter to take her order. She seems satisfied until she spots me and my friend. At this point, about five of her friends have come in, as well, despite the fact that only one of them is ordering anything.)

Schoolgirl: “Oh, my God! You seem them tattoos! They’re nasty. That skank is going to regret those when she gets old. What is she wearing? She’s got some big-a** chunky boots on. Look at that thing in her ear! It looks like a snail.”

(My friend is wearing a pretty big ear stretcher. She’s sitting there, trying not to take any notice, but the girl just won’t let up.)

Schoolgirl: “Eww. She looks like Shrek! She looks like a devil! God hates people like her! I should slap her across the face with a Bible! Jack the Ripper would come back from the dead and kill you! He likes girls like you! You’re f****** trash! Do you live in a trailer?”

(I’m fuming by this point. It’s taking everything I can not to get up and slap her around the face. I’m not a violent person by any stretch, but I can see how much it’s getting to my friend. The girl then decides to start on me. I’m average looking. I’m wearing plain clothes and glasses and I have long, red hair.)

Schoolgirl: “Yeah, look at that other one! She’s got glasses like Velma. She looks like she’s from Scooby-Doo! Oi, you want a Scooby Snack? Where’s Shaggy? Is he your boyfriend? Where’s Fred? Bet he’s your boyfriend! She’s ginger like Daphne, innit?”

Me: “Why don’t you shut up and keep your opinions to yourself?”

Schoolgirl: “Oh, my God! She even sounds like Velma! Why don’t you shut up?!”

Me: “I’m not the one who walked in and started throwing my pathetic opinions around!”

Schoolgirl: “Shut up!”

Me: “No, you shut your foul little mouth. I’m not the one still in school who can find nothing better to do than drag all of my friends into one fried chicken shop to buy a single burger and harass anyone that looks slightly different from me. Your insults are juvenile and pathetic. And if you want to talk about poor appearances, then perhaps you should rethink that disgusting beehive of yours and take that piercing out of your fat mouth.”

(We collected our food and left whilst the girl was still screaming at me to “shut up.”)

(Earlier last year, I was struck by a car while in a crosswalk. I came out of it none the worse for wear, though I managed to break my leg, leaving me in a cast for close to three months while various parts of the bone and tendons finally healed. I managed to get around pretty well on crutches, but sometimes this would get tiring when I’d go shopping. This little incident happens at one of the local grocery stores. Heading in with my friend to pick up some needed things around the house, I take one of those mobility scooters and place my crutches where I can get to them. With that done, I head into the store to do the shopping. I’ve put five or six things in the basket when I am approached by a young clerk and a woman.)

Clerk: “You’re going to have to get out of the chair.”

Me: “Uh… Why?”

Clerk: “That’s for people who are disabled; this lady needs it.”

Me: “Then she can get one out front. I can’t exactly walk.”

Clerk: “I don’t care.”

(He starts moving my stuff into a buggy and reaches for my crutches.)

Me: *almost in tears* “I can’t walk, mate. I’m in a cast.”

Clerk: “You need to get out.”

(The woman has this smug look on her face the whole time, even as I manhandle my cast over and struggle up onto the crutches. I am in tears by this point. Leaving the cart where it is, I hobble up front, passing my friend on the way. He sees me upset and “walking,” so he wants to know what’s going on. I tell him we need to see the manager right then and there, but won’t explain. The manager comes out of his office, sees me upset, and quickly helps me into a chair, wanting to know what’s wrong and if he needs to call EMT services or something for me. I explain to him why I’m upset, what happened, and how I can’t shop there any longer. To put it simply, he is LIVID. He quickly calls the clerk up front and says:)

Manager: “I want your side of this. Now, let me get this straight. Did you eject this customer, who obviously has a broken leg, from a mobility cart so someone else could ride it?”

Clerk: “It’s a fa—“

Manager: “I want a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer.”

Clerk: “But… fine. Yeah. So what? He can walk.”

Manager: “Walk? Oh, you mean hobble around in pain? Yeah, I suppose he can do that. You’re going to be walking, too. You’re fired. Now gather your crap, and I don’t want to ever see you in my store again. Got it?”

(The clerk muttered something and sulked out. The manager asked where I’d left my buggy, and if I could identify the woman that took the cart. I did the best I could on both counts. He told me to just rest in the chair with my foot up while he would make things right. His store wasn’t about to be remembered for such behavior. About fifteen minutes later, he returned, everything in the cart bagged, and told us to take it as compensation for the trouble. He even helped me out to the car. As we left, I noticed the woman sulking outside, complaining that she was disabled, and how dare they bar her from using the mobility carts. I still shop there regularly, and the manager makes it a point to always ask how I’m doing and if there’s anything I need. I’ve also seen the lady there twice, and both times she is staring rather forlornly at the carts. A sign above them reads, “The management reserves the right to remove you from these carts if it is determined you are NOT eligible for them.”)

(I am working the customer service area of a large grocery store — the small booth that sells smokes and lotto tickets. A customer walks up and I start to check him out.)

Customer: “You aren’t charging me for the bag.”

Me: “Yeah, I am.”

Customer: “No, seriously, you aren’t charging me for a bag.”

(It’s a five-cent charge that some places in Ontario have banned and some still use.)

Customer: “It’s a scam, you know; the price is built into the cost of the groceries. So, you are scamming us.”

(I smile and now while he’s going on about this.)

Customer: “So, as I said, it’s a scam. You are scamming me.”

Me: “I just do as I’m told, sir.”

Customer: “That’s what the Nazis said.”

(I stood there flabbergasted for a moment, but later had a few laughs with my coworkers about being called a Nazi. “Wage-slave” might have been a better term. My wife was right POed when I got home and told her about it.)