(I’m at a bar with my husband that we go to a few times a month. I’m casually playing Pokémon GO on my cellphone, which is something both of us enjoy doing together from time to time. I’m 32. An older man I’ve never seen before comes up.)

Man: *sits down at a stool beside me and notices what I’m doing* “Oh, my GOD. Are you playing that stupid Pokémon thing?”

Me: “Yep, sure am.”

Man: *snorts and rolls his eyes condescendingly* “HOW old are you?”

Me: *not looking up* “Old enough not to give a f*** about what some rude random thinks I should be doing in my spare time.”

(Both my husband and the bartender burst out laughing, and the man looked flustered and angry but scooted down a stool away from me and didn’t say anything else. The bartender even gave me my next round on the house.)

(At around 11:45 pm, just before we close, a group of guys from the 21st function upstairs come downstairs. They’ve been incessantly rude and destructive, in addition to being very drunk. My manager tells us not to serve them. I have scrubbed the beer trays down and it’s clear we’re closed. I’ve worked a 12-hour shift and want a beer for myself and my bed.)

Customer: “Two beers, please.”

Me: “No, mate, I’m not serving you any more.”

Customer: “Nah, nah, you know you want to. Two beers.”

Me: “I said no. We’re closing and you’re too drunk for me to serve.”

Customer: *leans over the bar and pulls the beer tap*

Me: “F*** off and get out of my bar!”

(He smirks and walks out.)

Manager: “Did you just tell him to f*** off?”

(Expecting to be reprimanded I apologise for my short fuse.)

Manager: “No, don’t apologise. If you didn’t, I would have.”

(I am a Canadian backpacker and go into a pub on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh. I approach the bartender.)

Me: “Hi, ‘scuse me, I had a question about the menu—”

Bartender: *sigh* “Haggis is sheep’s liver, lungs and heart, cooked in its stomach, and no, I’m not joking.”

Me: “I know THAT. My parents are both members of the Royal Vancouver Island Scottish Country Dance Society and my friends all think they’re terminally weird after hearing about how we have to drink a toast to sheep guts every January 25th. Now could you please tell me how many sausages come with the bangers and mash?”

(I’m at a restaurant with my mother picking up a to-go order, when I reach for my wallet to pay.)

Waiter: *turns to my mom* “Is she paying with her allowance?”

Me: “No— I… How old are you?”

Waiter: *offended* “I’m thirty-four.”

Mom: “How old does she look?”

Waiter: “Older than sixteen.”

Me: “I’m twenty four.”

(He apologized profusely. And said one day I’d appreciate looking so young. This happens all the time.)

(I am bartending and a customer motioned me to come over.)

Me: “Do you have a question about the menu?”

Customer: “Yes, for the fried chicken salad do they fry the salad, too?”

Me: *looking back at her with one eyebrow raised in a puzzled manner* “I… Well… No…?”

Customer: *stares blankly back at me*

Me: “I mean… Did you want it to be?” *I question utterly stumped*

Customer: “Wow… That was just a really stupid question, wasn’t it?”

Me: *jokingly* “For the security of my job I am unable to answer that question truthfully.”