I’m taking a customer’s details for furniture delivery. For context, a postcode in the UK contains both numbers and letters.

Me: “And your postcode?”

Customer: “It’s [postcode].”

Me: “Sorry, was that S for ‘sugar’ or F for ‘Freddy’ on the end there?”

Customer: “[Postcode].”

Me: “I need you to tell me if that’s S for ‘sugar’ or F for ‘Freddy’.”

Customer: “Oh, I don’t do all that sigma gamma delta nonsense; I just say it. People just gotta listen.”

Me: “Okay, sir, but I’m a little hard of hearing and I literally can’t hear the difference, so I need you to tell me which it is.”

Customer: “…sugar.”

The UK has a law about charging for plastic bags which any retailer over a certain size has to follow. This has been the case for years, and yet, some people are still surprised.

This customer has only bought a couple of small things, so I don’t think to ask if she needs a bag before she pays.

Customer: *Rudely* “What, no bag?”

Me: “Oh, sorry, we have to charge for bags. It’s 10p.”

Customer: “You’re seriously going to force me to pay 10p on my card?” *Stares*

Me: “It’s the law; we have to charge.”

Customer: “Well, I won’t do it!”

She fishes in her purse and pulls out a £20 note.

Customer: “Guess you’ll have to make change!”

I just start grabbing her change, as it’s really not that big a deal. The customer’s adult daughter, who has already bought her own things and paid, speaks up.

Customer’s Daughter: “For God’s sake, Mum, it’s been the law for years that you have to pay for bags.”

Customer: “Well, she didn’t ask if I wanted one!”

Customer’s Daughter: “And you didn’t ask for one, either. At my shop, we don’t ever ask, because we can only order in so many bags at a time and we want people to use less plastic. You have to ask if you want one.”

Customer: “It’s not my fault I forgot!”

Customer’s Daughter: “It’s not her fault, either. I don’t know why you’re getting so mad.”

By this point, I’ve gotten the change and the bag and packed the customer’s items away. I hand the customer her change and look at her daughter.

Me: “Thank you very much, ma’am. You have a nice day.”

I count myself very lucky to have retired very early in life. I spend a lot of my time with family, in the garden, and volunteering.

I get a lot of odd looks from the other volunteers who are much older than me or otherwise unable to work. No one has ever said anything. I can only assume they think I am either rich — I am not, my house is paid and I have just enough to live modestly — or lazy.

I treat it as a job. I’m the first one there, and I’m always busy or finding something to do. I try to act professionally and courteously to the customers. It’s just who I am and what I am used to.

One of the regulars comes up to me.

Regular: “You know what? We are always so happy to see you serving. You know all the prices and we never have any issue with you.”

Me: “Thank you. I enjoy it here and I like to be good at what I do.”

Regular: “I do wonder why you’re not the manager. Or why you don’t have a real job.”

Me: “Er… I retired, some time ago actually. I had a job, but I don’t need to work as I did back then.”

Regular: “But I’ve seen you up and down those aisles, checking on things, showing the others what to do. You could be put there doing something.”

Me: “I am doing something; the work [Charity] does is important and I enjoy it.”

Regular: “No, no, no. You should have a proper job — a man your age. Not just stood around behind a counter. Do something more like a real job. You don’t even know what work is!”

I was the best worker a few seconds ago, and now my job isn’t even real.

Me: “I did have a real job. I built my company from the ground up and hired dozens of people. I worked late nights, early mornings, and long days. But it was all a success. I sold it, paid my mortgage, and retired. I know what real work is and I’ve been there done that. I’ve already made my money, so that’s why I’m here.”

The regular is silent for some time.

Regular: “So… can I have this for free, as you have all this money?”

I tried to explain that no, my money is not the charity’s money, nor would I buy him anything. And no, my coworker wouldn’t buy it for him, either. He kept coming back and would occasionally say something stupid. Luckily, I could just avoid him, and as a volunteer, I wouldn’t get into any trouble.

We regularly donate to our local charity shop, and if we take the kids, they can pick out a cheap toy or book while we are there.

My youngest picks out a battery-powered toy car. We think nothing of it and go home. It’s only much later that we realise that the car is actually remote-controlled, but there is no remote.

I head back to the charity shop a few days later.

Me: “Hi, sorry to ask, but we bought this car a few days ago and didn’t realise there was supposed to be a controller.”

Cashier: “I’m sorry about that. Maybe check the shelf?”

Me: “I did. Nothing there.”

Cashier: “Again, I’m so sorry. We keep all remotes or missing items by the desk and nothing is here. Probably someone just donated it like this.”

Me: “Wait, people donate missing items?”

Cashier: “Oh, all the time; it’s a big problem for us. Broken furniture, odd shoes… Some people know they are doing it, too. A woman donated a dozen jigsaws and each one she had counted and labelled how many pieces were missing. We have to throw it away. Their donations actually end up costing us money in rubbish collection and countless hours wasted for our volunteers.”

Me: “Wow, I didn’t know that.”

Cashier: “Do you remember how much you paid? I can refund you.”

Me: “No, it’s okay. He still plays with it. Just checking, really.”

Cashier: “Again, really sorry about this.”

A bit defeated, I left, only to see another woman arguing with a volunteer about why they couldn’t take a damaged electrical item. Honestly, why do people think they can ditch their rubbish in charity shops?

A lady comes into our charity shop shortly before lunch and spends the princely sum of £2 on a battery-powered keyring that locates your keys, which came to the shop in the still-sealed original box.

She returns to the shop literally five minutes before it’s due to close. Staff are not allowed to kick customers out at closing time but are forced to stay open until they decide to leave. She’s back to complain that the keyring didn’t work and that she wants a refund. The only trouble is that she can’t find her receipt.

Knowing what the answer will be, I call my assistant manager down.

Manager: “Without the receipt, we can’t give you a refund, but you can select an item of equal value, instead.”

This lady then stays in the shop for more than FIFTEEN MINUTES, seemingly oblivious to me bringing in the shop sign from outside, closing the door, and calling out when the assistant manager calls down to ask if I could come down and mop the floor:

Me: “No, I’ve still got a customer in here.”

She finally comes up to the counter with a top she has picked up and put back down half a dozen times.

As if this isn’t enough, she then starts rummaging in her bag again.

Customer: “I’m sure I’ve got my receipt here somewhere.”

Visions of murder dancing in my head, I politely fold the top for her and thank her for her support.

Since staff/volunteers can’t cash up the till or mop the floor until all the customers have gone, the assistant manager and I are more than half an hour late leaving, and the assistant manager has clearly been reading my mind, because she looks at me after the customer has finally left and says:

Manager: “Over two pounds? Seriously?”

The customer still left her receipt behind.