I’m in a subway carriage going home after a long day of work. Luckily, it’s not crowded. A woman about sixty years old gets in and sits more or less opposite from me. 

After a minute, staring at no one in particular, she loudly asks the void:

Older Lady: “Is this the red one?”

Our subway system has different colors on the outside of the carriages for different lines, but they’re usually referred to by numbers or by destination. I’m blanking on which color is which line, but a passenger next to me answers.

Passenger #1: “Yes, it’s Line 1.”

A couple of minutes go by, and we pass a station with several signs indicating a line exchange to Line 2. She pipes up again, staring at some point a meter above my head.

Older Lady: “Does this go to [Station A]?”

That’s the endpoint of Line 2.

Me: “No! It’s going to [Station B].”

Passenger #1: “No, for [Station A], you’d have to change lines.”

Passenger #2: “I’m going in that direction; I’ll change lines at the next station. I can show you the way!”

Older Lady: “No, no. I’m going to [Station C].”

This is located on this line and in the direction we’re headed.

Me: “Okay, then you’re on the right train!”

Older Lady: “Nah, you are all wrong. This is headed to [Station A].”

Passenger #1: “What? No, it’s headed to [Station B]!”

Passenger #2: “This is Line 1, in [Station B]’s direction. It will pass through your station.”

The older lady replies, still looking at no one:

Older Lady: “No. It’s you guys who’ve got the wrong train!” *Harrumph*

Thinking to myself, “Lady, why the f*** did you ask, then?”, I decided there was no point in trying to help her and went back to scrolling social media on my phone; the other two passengers soon did the same. 

Interestingly, although she seemed so convinced that we were giving out the wrong information, she did as instructed and kept on until [Station C], and she exited while avoiding my and [Passenger #1]’s pointed looks.

I’m a Brazilian graphic designer and as you may imagine, a lot of us take soccer (and the World Cup) very seriously. Our team games are like holidays around here.

I get a call from a client minutes before an important World Cup game, asking for a new design for some motion graphics.

Me: “Can this be delivered this evening?”

Client: “It absolutely cannot wait, since we absolutely have to post our video within the hour!”

I took my assistant from the bar and we ran to deliver a thirty-second, easy-to-do video in less than an hour. Okay, that’s fine, it happens; it is not an official holiday, after all.

The client wrote me five days later asking for some changes. At game time.

I’m Brazilian by birth, though I grew up in England. As such, I have a very strong accent and speak Portuguese as a second language. I need to get some documents notarised and head to the local office. As it is my first time there, they need to take some details.

Woman: “Okay, now I just need your [incomprehensible] number.”

Me: “Um, excuse me?”

Woman: “Your number.”

Me: “My identity number is here on my ID.”

Woman: “No, I need your other number.”

I have no idea what is going on. The woman gives me a patronising smile.

Woman: “What nationality are you?”

Me: “Brazilian.”

Woman: “No, your other nationality.”

Me: “I’m Brazilian.”

Woman: “No, your other nationality.”

Me: “Well, I am dual nationality British-Brazilian, but what difference does that make?”

Woman: “Aha! So I need your [random abbreviation] number.”

Me: “I have no idea what you are talking about. I am Brazilian; I only have an [ID] number.”

This carries on for five minutes until my boyfriend (who is native) comes along. He talks to the woman who then leaves, and he turns to me, speaking English.

Boyfriend: “You’re done here. She wanted your naturalisation number.”

Me: *Cluelessly* “But I’m born and bred Brazilian. I just speak funny.”

Boyfriend: “Yeah, she heard the accent and smelled the money. She was trying to get you to pay for a few more forms. Next time, just say you are Brazilian and keep it there.”

I have had recurrent urinary infections for a while, so after the most recent one is treated, my doctor sends me for an ultrasound to make sure nothing is left in my bladder to explain it.

To do this, you have to have a full bladder, so they tell you to drink two big glasses of water about thirty minutes before the appointment. I do this and arrive at the clinic ten minutes before to start waiting. By this point, I am starting to feel the need to go.

The appointment ends up being thirty minutes late, and at this point, I am almost crying in pain from my bladder being so full. I finally get in, and they scan before and after I have peed.

The doctor then gives me the news that I might have urinary retention and this could be serious.

However, I am not so sure, as it is literally just above the most minor category.

Fast forward to my meeting with my usual doctor. He reads the report and gets to that point in it. He snorts.

Doctor: “Most people’s bladder has a capacity of about 500ml; you had just over 600ml. I’d be surprised if you didn’t have some retention. The guy doing the scan is an idiot.”

At least I now know why I was in so much pain.

My parents separated when I was in my early teens, and for some years, it was ugly between them. While my mom made sure that I still had a relationship with my dad, I was extremely angry about what he did to my mom and tried to avoid being around him too much, especially because he kept trying to bad-talk Mom to me.

One day, he turns to me and starts to complain.

Dad: “Your mom was crazy, honey. She would scream at me for no reason.”

Me: “Mhm.”

Dad: “I would get home and she would make up all sorts of accusations.”

Me: “Okay.”

Dad: “I never said anything back. I don’t know why she would treat me like that. She is crazy, I’m telling you.”

I got fed up, and for the first time, I decided to stand up to him.

Me: “Please stop. This is all a lie.”

Dad: “What are you talking about? Did she poison you against me already?!”

Me: *Quietly* “This speech of yours might work with my brothers, Dad… but did you forget my bedroom shares a wall with the kitchen? All the times you two went to argue there instead of your bedroom to not wake us up, well, I woke up for them. I heard it all. I know what happened. Stop talking bad things about Mom to me, because if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t even come to have lunch with you anymore.”

Surprisingly, it worked. He looked ashamed like I had never seen him before — or since — and stopped talking. He only started to trash-talk Mom to me one more time, but then he saw the look on my face and got quiet.