\My mum is visiting, a very rare occurrence as we live so far away, so we’ve gone out for a special afternoon tea. The place is busy with almost every table full when two women and an approximately three- or four-year-old boy come in. They’re sat down, and a waitress takes their order and brings their drinks. It isn’t long before the little boy starts grumbling.

Boy: “Mum, toilet!”

Mum: “Mmm, in a minute.”

Boy: “Nowwwwwwww!”

Mum: “Wait.”

Boy: “No, nowwwwwwww!”

This back and forth continues as the boy gets louder and louder while both women are staring at their phones. Eventually, an angelic waitress appears.

Waitress: “Hi, guys, shall I take him downstairs to the toilet? Or I can show you where it is?”

Mum: “Yeah, great. [Boy], go with the lady.”

They’re gone for a bit and the boy is then brought back up, holding the waitress’s hand. All is calm for about five minutes before he suddenly starts screaming in a high-pitched whine. The sudden noise makes all of the tables stop their conversations and stare at the boy.

We all wait for the two adults to do something, but both are still staring at their phones. The mum is taking photos of her pretty frappe and doesn’t seem to notice. After a few minutes of intermittent screaming, the waitress reappears.

Waitress: “Hey, buddy, how’s your drink?”

The boy suddenly stops screaming but carries on, sobbing and hiccupping.

Boy: “I-I-it’s okay.”

Waitress: “Can I get you anything else? Is it okay if I get him a cupcake or something?”

Mum: “Mmm, yeah, he can have whatever.”

The waitress gives him a cupcake, and he slowly starts eating it so there’s a few minutes of silence before the screaming starts up again. Another table of guests gets up, looking irritated, and leaves. Once again, the waitress seems to be hoping for the adults with the boy to intervene before she steps forward again. This time, she doesn’t even speak to the Mum.

Waitress: “Hey, buddy, do you want to see something cool?”

He nods silently.

Waitress: “Okay, come see. We’re about to ice a cake!”

She takes his hand and leads him behind the counter. The adults are seemingly taking selfies and photos of their cakes because they don’t acknowledge he’s left. They’re gone a little while. When they come back out, the waitress has given him a cloth and he’s helping her clean empty tables while she sprays them with cleaner. She’s doing a great job of keeping him distracted, but eventually, she gets called away, so she takes him back to his table where he promptly begins screaming again.

This time, a manager approaches.

Manager: “Hey, how is everything?”

Other Woman: “Yeah, good.”

Manager: “Great, I’m glad to hear it. Could I please ask that while you’re enjoying your food, though, your son just keeps his voice down? It’s a small space and the noise carries.”

Mum: “Yeah, yeah…”

Predictably, this does not work, and he’s soon screaming again.

Manager: “Hey, fella, I hope you’re not feeling too sad. We don’t like tears in here!”

The boy smiles and wipes his eyes a bit.

Manager: “Okay, remember to use your inside voice.” *Whispers* “Like thissss.”

It lasts a couple of minutes before the screaming starts again. The manager wearily approaches, and the mum stands up suddenly, snapping her fingers.

Mum: “Fine, fine. Give us a to-go box; we’re leaving.”

They left quickly with no thank-you to the waitress who had babysat her son for most of the meal. We asked later, and the manager had apparently added an extra service charge onto what they did pay.

I hear some noise outside of my house, which I attribute to road works. It stops, and then I get a knock at the door.

Man: “Hi. We’re power washing houses today. Just did your neighbours’. Your render could do with a going-over.”

That’s a little blunt, but he is right. I’ve been meaning to get someone to do it. But from what I’ve read, this render shouldn’t just be blasted clean; it needs low pressure and cleaning chemicals. I don’t trust some random guy to not damage it.

Me: “No, thanks.”

Man: “Okay, okay. How about your path, then? It’s pretty slippery. You wouldn’t want anyone slipping over.”

Again, yes, it could do with a clean. But I really don’t like how this guy is coming across. It just feels rude now.

Me: “Again, thank you, but no.”

Man: “Oh, but look at how clean we can get it.”

He stands aside and reveals a small, clean square right in the middle of the path. It stands out like a sore thumb!

Me: “What gives you the right to do that to my path?”

Man: “What? Oh, it’s just to show you how dirty your paths are. Look how clean we can get it. It’s not even the same colour!”

Me: “I don’t care. You’ve come on to my property, uninvited, made a big mark in the path, and now you’re trying to guilt me into paying you?”

Man: “Oh, don’t be like that. I’ll even knock some money off for you.”

Me: “Get the h*** off my property.”

Man: “Wait, come on. I’ve already got the gear set up. It will only—”

I slammed the door on him, and I reported him for his pushy tactics. His company told me that they would follow this up.

I read later that others had also complained, and a man matching his description was taken to court for trading without insurance or licencing.

I’m on a bus on my way home from work. My stop is near the end of the line and in a residential area, so there are not many passengers coming onto the bus at that point. I hit the button for my stop, but the driver keeps on driving right past it.

Me: *Calling out* “Hey, you missed my stop!”

Driver: “What?”

Me: “You missed my stop, back there!”

The driver pulls over in a safe spot, and I go up front to swipe my card. He hasn’t opened the door for me at this point.

Driver: *Belligerently* “Next time, press the button.”

Me: “Excuse me? I did press it.”

Driver: “I didn’t hear anything.”

The other passenger and I both heard it.

Me: “Well, I did, and the light went on, so I know the button isn’t broken.”

Driver: *Suddenly, more belligerently* “Do you think I can see the f****** light from here?”

This is a fair point, as the light is behind him as he’s looking at the road. However:

Driver: “You sit down there—” *indicating his seat* “—and tell me if you can see it. Huh?”

Now a bit taken aback, I just stutter.

Driver: “Go on. Sit down there.”

He then grabs me and shoves me down into the driver’s seat. I’m not too strong and I’ve had a long day anyway, so he easily gets me sitting down.

Driver: “Can you see it? Can you see that light from there?”

Of course, I can’t, but at this point, I’m pretty fed up.

Me: *Standing up* “Look, mate, you know that I can’t see it. And I know I heard the buzzer, so either something’s not working up here or you need your hearing checked. Which one is it?”

The driver shrinks a little and opens the door. I start to tag off. The driver speaks a bit more meekly but still tries to be belligerent.

Driver: “I’ll put in a request to get it looked at.”

Me: “Smart move.”

And then I simply turned around and walked off the bus. I started using a different bus route the next day.

We’ve had problems in the past with food delivery drivers taking our orders to our neighbours. Because we’re on an intersection, it’s somewhat understandable. For context, if our house is 13 Main Street, the house across the intersecting street and down one is 13 General Street. It’s an understandable mix-up, so I’ve started putting in the description for delivery drivers that we are on the corner and have no vehicles; the neighbours in question are bikers and have multiple cars. It has mostly fixed the problem… except for one day.

I’m at home waiting for an order when the phone rings with an unknown number.

Me: “Hello?”

Delivery Guy: “Yeah, I’m outside your house, but you’re not on a corner and there are cars here.”

I look outside and can see him parked across from the neighbour. I sigh deeply.

Me: “That’s because it’s the wrong house.”

Delivery Guy: “Oh.”

Seriously?!

My three-year-old car has decided that it needs a new engine block, something not covered by warranty.

Mechanic: “We have found a secondhand engine for $6,328.00. We just need a deposit put down in order for us to order it in.”

Me: “Oh, okay, sure. How much are we talking for a deposit?”

Mechanic: “We need a deposit of $4,500.00.”

Me: “Um, that’s not a deposit; that’s basically paying the whole lot up front. A deposit for something is usually 10% to 20% of the cost of the item. Are you sure you know what ‘deposit’ means?”

Mechanic: “I know what ‘deposit’ means. This is our policy.”

Me: “I really think you need to look at the definition of a deposit.”