I work for a company that does a lot of work in public buildings, installing equipment and furnishings, and refurbishing rooms and buildings. Some years ago, a colleague and I were tasked with going to a local primary school to set up their new library, which was in a repurposed storage room. We were going to be fitting blinds, putting together shelving and fixing it to the walls, setting up the computer, and finally arranging the books in the correct order on the shelves.

Our company had told the school we would need a day and a half, but when we arrived, we decided we could do it in one day if we stayed later than planned. The head teacher, who had shown us into the room, told us that most of the staff would leave at 5:00 pm, but if we needed to stay later, the cleaners would be there until 6:30 and she would let them know that we were there and would need to be let out.

The school had a simple layout. The main building was a long, straight corridor with the school hall/dining room at one end and a reception area with offices opening off it at the other end. The classrooms opened off the corridor on either side, and the little room we were working on was about halfway along. Also on the site, on the opposite side of the playground to the main building, was a gymnasium.

We worked hard and, by about 5:30 in the evening, the library was looking great. We packed up our gear, broke down all the boxes that things had been delivered in, and opened the door to leave.

The corridor was pitch dark. It was winter and thus dark outside, and not a single light was to be seen. Having expected to find the cleaners still working their way through the building, we were surprised.

My phone battery was low, so my colleague shone her phone torch down the corridor and we made our way toward the reception area. There wasn’t a soul around. We tried calling out, but nobody responded. The main entrance doors were locked.

My colleague wanted to update her husband and so called him, staying in the reception area. Meanwhile, I made my way back down the corridor, running my hands along the walls as I couldn’t see, shouting every now and then to see if I could get anybody’s attention.

By horror film rules, we both probably should have been killed, but I digress.

Having had no luck, and having found the doors into the hall locked also, I made my way back to the reception area, where my colleague was having difficulty getting her rather dim husband to understand that her estimated arrival time home was now uncertain. While she was doing that, I looked out the glass of the main doors and saw two people — a middle-aged man and a young woman — wearing tabards with a cleaning company logo on them, crossing the playground. I knocked on the glass to get their attention, and they looked surprised to see us. The woman hurried up to the door, and we talked through the glass.

It quickly became clear that she spoke very little English but was quite quick on the uptake. The man, on the other hand, spoke English perfectly but wasn’t very on the ball. It took a couple of minutes of me shouting through the glass and the woman doing her best to back me up to get him to come over to the door so we could explain the problem, rather than just staring at us in mild surprise from fifteen feet away.

He eventually ambled over, and I explained that we had been working in an enclosed room and had been told the cleaners would let us out.

After a moment’s thoughtful silence, the man spoke thus:

Man: “We’re the cleaners!”

Me: “…Yes, I thought so. Can you let us out?”

Man: “The door is locked.”

Me: “Yes. Can you unlock it, please?”

Man: “Well, I can’t open it, you see, because it’s locked. You see?”

He pointed at the part of the door where the lock was.

The young woman clearly had enough English to be able to follow our conversation, even if she didn’t speak much, and looked like she wanted to throttle her colleague. My colleague was no help, either, as she was deeply engrossed in walking her husband through preheating the oven, which he seemed to find incredibly challenging. I decided to try a different angle.

Me: “Do you have keys to unlock the door with?”

Man: “It was locked up at about 5:00.”

Me: “Okay. Who locked it?”

Man: “I don’t remember.”

Woman: *To the man* “Was you!”

Man: *To me* “She doesn’t speak English. But she might know, if you know any Indian.”

The young woman put both her hands over her face and groaned.

Me: “Do you have any other staff here? Or a manager you could call?”

Man: “Well, we’re only supposed to call them if something’s wrong.”

Me: “There are two people trapped in the building. That’s wrong.”

Man: “Oh, yeah.”

He stared very intently, suddenly, at the ground several feet away, like he was trying to work something out. My colleague was trying to explain to her husband that you don’t peel baked potatoes and the potato skin isn’t poisonous. Abruptly, after about a minute, the man came out of his fugue looking like he was about to shout, “Eureka!”

Man: “The gym! That isn’t locked! You could get out of there!”

The young woman said something uncomplimentary-sounding under her breath and walked away.

I looked out at the gym; even from there, and in the dim light of the playground, it was clear that there was nothing connecting the two buildings. There was no way to get from one to the other without going through this door.

Me: “But we’re locked in this building. We can’t get out of here to get to the gym.”

Man: “But the gym isn’t locked!”

Me: “We aren’t in the gym. We’re in this building, which is locked.”

Man: “But the gym isn’t locked!”

Me: “How do you suggest we get from here to the gym?”

Man: “It’ll be easy because the gym isn’t locked.”

Me: “So, to go into the gym, I need to leave here first. How do I leave here?”

Man: “The gym… it isn’t locked…”

Mercifully, the young woman reappeared with a set of keys and unlocked the door.

Woman: *To the man, shaking the keys* “You leave on floor.”

My colleague and I exited the building, finally. I expressed my gratitude to the woman and ignored the man, who was exhibiting the smiling smugness belonging to a person who has just resolved world hunger, and off we went in my car, very relieved.

And just in case you were wondering, my colleague’s husband somehow blew up several potatoes.

The city I live and work in is one of the largest in the UK and has several universities in it. I work in the city centre and live close enough to commute on foot. I usually walk home on a major route that, if I were to follow it past my street and on for another half a mile or so, would lead to the largest and most famous of these universities. 

It’s spring, and there are a lot of potential students coming to the city to look at the different university campuses, take tours of the buildings, and generally try to prepare for their future. The city can be hard to navigate, so I like to keep an eye out for them and give directions where I can.

One day, I am at a point on my walk home that’s almost equidistant between the largest university and the two universities nearest to where I work. I spot two confused-looking young people. They are dressed in an eclectic mix of clothing that gives that hint of trying too hard to be quirky. One is looking around, looking half-asleep and helpless. The other is glowering with tightly folded arms and an about-to-ask-for-the-manager expression of rage.

Being too nice for my own good, I ask if they are lost.

Sleepy: “Yeah… We’re trying to get to the university.”

Me: “Okay, I can give you directions. Which one?”

I can almost hear the row of dots coming off them.

Sleepy: “…”

Grumpy: “…”

Sleepy: “There are two?”

Me: “Well, I’d say there are three in walking distance of here. What’s the name of the one you want to go to?”

Sleepy looks to Grumpy for help, but Grumpy just harrumphs.

Me: “Is it [University #1]?”

Sleepy: “Uhhhhh…”

Me: “[University #2]?”

Sleepy: “Uhhhhh…”

Me: “[University #3]?”

Sleepy: “…What was the second one again?”

Me: “[University #2]?”

Sleepy: “What was the first one?”

Me: “[University #1]?”

Sleepy: “What was the second one?”

This goes on for some time. Grumpy is no help, clearly getting angrier and angrier in the manner of a toddler whose mother is spending too long chatting outside the supermarket. 

Me: “Look, do you want to call somebody to ask? One of your friends or your family, maybe?”

Sleepy: “No! Our parents said we wouldn’t be able to do this by ourselves! We have to do it by ourselves! Help us!”

Me: *Ignoring the irony* “Well, can you remember anything about the university you’re trying to go to? What course you were interested in? What the logo looks like?”

Sleepy: “It’s in a train station.”

Me: “…Do you mean the train station called ‘University’?”

This is a mainline train station within the campus of the largest university — the one in the direction I’m walking.

Sleepy: “Yes, the university is in it. I think it must be the biggest station in the city.”

Me: “No, University Station is on the campus of [University #1]. Is that the one you want to go to?”

Sleepy, confused beyond the ability to speak, looks at Grumpy. Grumpy does an eye-roll the size of a planetary orbit, grudgingly pulls a sheet of paper from somewhere, and hands it to Sleepy. Sleepy holds it out to me. It’s a flyer for an open day at [University #1]. 

I decide that these two can’t be left to their own devices. I’ll help them find the campus and, hopefully, somebody there will help them get home after they do whatever they are going to do there.

Me: “Okay, I’m heading in the direction you need to go in for [University #1], so how about you walk with me? I can’t go all the way to the campus with you, but I can get you on the right street.”

They both agree, and we set off. I think they might like to chat about the city, but my attempts at conversation are met with looks of terror from Sleepy and glares from Grumpy. After we cross a major road at a pedestrian crossing, they decide to walk about five feet behind me, and every time I turn around to check on them, they are staring fixedly at me. I notice other pedestrians and even drivers giving us weird looks.

By the time we get near my building, I am seriously regretting trying to be helpful. I am at the point where I can safely part ways with them, though.

Me: “To get to the campus, you just keep going down this road. Walk another ten minutes or so. Don’t take any turns or cross the road. You’ll see a big building on the left with a huge banner hanging up on the front of it, saying what it says on your flyer. You can’t miss it. Go into that building and ask one of the staff where you should go. Okay?”

Sleepy: “Yeah.”

Me: “Any questions?”

Sleepy: “Uhhhh… no.”

Not foolish enough to expect thanks at this point, I walk up a side street, cross, go through the small gate that leads into the side of my building’s grounds, walk around to the front of the building, and take out my keys to go into the foyer.

Then, I turn my head and realise that the two have followed me.

Sleepy: “Is this the university?”

Me: “No. Go back to the corner where I spoke to you earlier, and then walk in the direction I told you to.”

Sleepy: “Oh! You were giving us directions!”

Grumpy: *To Sleepy* “Ugh, why are we even here?”

I just went inside.

That was a few years ago. I’ve helped out countless other visitors to the city since, and I’ve never met anybody who had as much trouble as those two. I sometimes wonder if they got into university, and if so, what they studied. I also sometimes wonder if they are still shuffling helplessly around, looking for something that might be a train station, hassling innocent bystanders, and avoiding calling their parents.

I think they might be.

I’m an aspiring writer. And I have writer’s block. It’s been bugging me for quite a while now, and nothing I do seems to work. I go to a writer friend of mine and ask for advice.

Me: “How do you deal with writer’s block? I mean, you never seem to have it. What’s your secret?”

Friend: “Okay, I’ll show you. Get out your computer and open up your manuscript while I get the stuff.”

He walks out of the room and I do so. He comes back in a few minutes and slams a bottle of wine down onto the table. He pours me a glass.

Friend: “Drink this, and then start writing. Any time you get stuck, take another sip.”

Me: “Seriously? Your magic cure for writer’s block is to get drunk?”

Friend: *Shrugs* “It works.”

I give him a deadpan look.

Friend: “Right, remember Julia, the main character of my novel?”

Me: “Yeah, the evil empress.”

Friend: “I wrote most of her backstory while utterly hammered.”

Me: “But Julia’s your best character! The most well-written!”

Friend: “Exactly.”

I wordlessly downed the entire glass of wine immediately. My friend silently nodded and refilled the wineglass.

I don’t remember much of what happened next, but I woke up the next morning with a horrible hangover and a significant expansion to my manuscript, which, after editing, I found to be a workable plot.

I haven’t yet had to revisit the bottle, as my muse has somewhat returned, but still, maybe my friend really was onto something.

People: “Oh, my God, you’ve really slimmed down. Like, a lot. Can you please tell me your secret?”

When people say that to me, I have to resist the urge to slap them, which is rather problematic, given that I hear that line on average thrice a day.

I was on the pudgy side for most of my life. I was rather sedentary. And a liking for booze, dairy, and snacking meant that I wasn’t the slimmest person in the world.

Then, I got pregnant when I was eighteen, and my father disowned me for that. Oh, and my boyfriend literally fled the country to avoid paying child support. When I tried to approach his family, they told me to f*** off.

Still, I found myself a room to rent and a part-time job and tried my best to raise my newborn little girl.

When I first started out, I had a full bank account and summer sunlight behind me. I was confident that I could do this. Then, the costs started mounting and my bank account began growing depleted. Winter was encroaching, and babies were expensive, even with welfare.

I had a choice between coats or good food. I chose the coats and started eating takeout. The price of baby products went up. I halved my sleep and got a second part-time job. Babysitters began charging more because of the health crisis. I dropped ice cream and chocolate to afford them.

Then, my daughter fell sick. I dropped alcohol to afford the medicine.

The heating bill was more than expected. I used my food money to pay for it and spent a month eating my coworkers’ leftovers.

I had to buy new school supplies — textbooks and the like. I cut down from three square meals a day (plus snacks) to just one, convincing myself that it was about time I started dieting.

Final exams arrived. I took time off from my two part-time jobs to study for it, depleting what was left of my bank account in order to feed and clothe my daughter and myself.

My bank account was completely empty after finals. I took three part-time jobs during the school holidays to partially replenish it. Sleep was basically nonexistent by this point, and I was surviving off one meal a day.

But even so, no matter what I did, bills and costs were slowly but surely strangling me. I’d gotten to the point where I was seriously considering some… less wholesome methods of earning cash, when my grandmother passed away.

She willed me quite a bit, and although she was barely coherent toward the end, her last words were apparently for my father to reconcile with her favourite granddaughter, so that’s what he did. He rescinded my disownment and invited me to come in from the cold.

The first conversation we had went something like this.

Father: *Stunned look* “You’ve slimmed down so much! Can you please tell me your secret? I’ve got a couple of inches I’d like to lose from my waistline.”

That’s an understatement. I lost almost an entire stone and was pretty thin and haggard by that point. On more than one occasion, I couldn’t afford to feed both my daughter and myself, and every single time, I chose to starve so that my daughter had food.

And hearing my father ask about something as frivolous as weight loss really made me come THAT close to committing murder.

Me: “It’s called being a single mother with no family for over a year. Guaranteed results.”

I’m a university student, and I’m currently doing a group project with three others. [Groupmate] and I are looking over what the other two have submitted.

Groupmate: “Well, those two numbskulls really half-a**ed the work.” 

Me: *Irritably* “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

Groupmate: “My middle name is Prosperity.”

I blink.

Me: “Really?”

Groupmate: “Really.”

Me: “You’re not fooling around, right?”

Groupmate: “Nope. I’ve got two names: one in English, one in Chinese. My Chinese one is legally my middle name, and when translated, it means Ascend-To-Prosperity, so yes, Prosperity really is my middle name.”

Me: “Is this common?”

Groupmate: *Shrugs* “Back home in Singapore, yes. For example, my friend [English Name]’s full name is [English Name] [Surname] [Chinese Name]. Most of us follow that format, as well.”

Me: “And [Chinese Name] is her middle name?”

Groupmate: *Wriggles palm* “Legally speaking. Even though it’s behind her surname.”

Me: “That’s weird.”

Groupmate: *Shrugs* “That’s just what happens when you grow up in a place that speaks both English and Chinese.”

Me: “Fair enough, but let’s get back on topic.”

We got back to work, but I was a lot calmer and light-hearted now. 

This basically evolved into our usual working relationship. I’d get angry over something, [Groupmate] would distract me with some interesting trivia, we’d get sidetracked for a bit, and I’d forget my anger, and then, we’d get back to work with a clear head.