(It’s a very, very quiet British Sunday. I am sitting at a train station, alone. No trains are due for a while and I am waiting for a connection. I can’t even hear traffic, it’s so quiet, and I can’t see any staff. Suddenly…)
Platform PA: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a station announcement. This is for the lady that just brought us the cake… Thank you very much; it was delicious.”
(My younger sister and I are walking along chatting. Although she is quite smart, she often says things without thinking them through. I would also like to point out that she is 21 years old.)
Sister: “So, you know those white lines in the middle of the road?”
Me: *wondering where this is going* “Yeah?”
Sister: “It that so when blind people drive, they know where the edge of the road is?”
Me: “…”
Sister: “And the bumpy lines are so they know there is a roundabout coming up.”
Me: “…”
Sister: “What?”
Me: “…”
(Sudden realisation dawns on her face.)
Sister: “Oh. Blind people can’t drive.”
Me: “No. No, they can’t.”
(We still laugh about it to this day.)
I work in a grocery and its near closing time. I’m attending the self check outs when a customer asks me a question about one of our offers. He is looking at our battery offer, which is “Buy one, get one free”.
Customer: “Excuse me?”
Me: “Yes, sir? How can I help?”
Customer “What is this buy one get one free deal? Is it where I buy one and get one for free?”
Me: “… Yes it is. You buy one pack of batteries and you get a second pack for free.”
Customer: “Oh, okay. Thanks!”
Sometimes I wonder…
(A local bank has changed its phone number, and the new number happens to be very similar to mine. I keep coming home from work to messages, many of which contain very sensitive information such as bank account numbers, card details, and PINs. I delete them immediately and contact the bank to tell them. The bank manager apologises and says he will send out a letter to all their customers telling them to be extra careful when dialling, but also to remind them not to leave sensitive information on any messages. Despite the manager’s best efforts, I keep getting calls and coming home to messages. I can’t change my number because the phone company will charge me for it. I figure that the customers will eventually get the message. Besides, most of the callers are polite, if a little embarrassed when I tell them they have the wrong number. One morning I get roused at 8:00 am by a phone call. I am still half asleep when I answer.)
Me: “Uh… hello?”
Caller: “That’s a terrible way to answer a call. So rude.”
Me: “Who is this?”
Caller: “My name is Mrs. [Caller]. I need to make an appointment to discuss my savings account with you—“
Me: “Sorry to interrupt, but you’ve got the wrong number. This isn’t [Bank].”
Caller: “How dare you interrupt me?! Are you new?”
Me: “I don’t work at [Bank]. You have the wrong number.”
Caller: “Look, just make me the appointment; this is very important.”
Me: “You have called a private residence. This is not [Bank]. You need to hang up and try again.”
Caller: “You insolent little b****! I demand your name!”
Me: “I’m not giving you my name. You’ve got the wrong number!
Caller: “You’re just saying that to cover your a**. Typical young person; you’re all lazy and rude. Get me your manager now!”
Me: “This. Isn’t. [Bank]. You have called a private residence. The new number for the bank is one digit different to mine. You have the wrong number. I cannot get the manager because I am not in the bank; I am in my house. You are not speaking to a [Bank] employee.”
Caller: “That’s it! I’m going to make a complaint and get you fired! You are a rude and insolent little b****.”
Me: “Good luck with that. I don’t even work for [Bank]. Like I keep telling you, you have the wrong number.”
Caller: “How dare you?! That’s it; I’m coming down to the bank. I know the branch manager personally. I hope you enjoy the unemployment line.”
Me: “I hope you enjoy trying to fire somebody who doesn’t even work for the bank.”
(I hang up.)
After being rushed to hospital via ambulance, I was put in a bed on the ward around two in the morning.
Each bay had four beds in it, and each bed was labelled one through four. The patients’ names were above the beds, and the charts were located at the bottom of the beds.
I hadn’t been asleep for long when I was suddenly thrown upright by someone fiddling with my bed and adjusting the top so I was sitting. Another nurse grabbed my arm before I had fully woken up, so there was one on each side. One was taking my blood pressure and the other was about to insert a needle into my cannula.
Neither had said a word to me.
Tired, cranky, and having only just gotten to sleep after being transferred up from A&E, I asked them what they were doing.
“Just giving you your medicine, Catherine,” one of the nurses replied.
My name is not Catherine.
I asked them to check my chart and to get the needles away from me. They did, grumbling as if I was being dramatic, only to both go wide-eyed. I was in bed two and apparently, they needed the woman in bed one.
I thought nothing of it. I was only happy that they hadn’t injected me with a random drug as I was pregnant, and who knows what could have happened.
It wasn’t until the next morning that I found out that Catherine in the bed across from me was 102 years old and suffering from dementia.
I was twenty-five and heavily pregnant at the time.
I don’t know how they managed to mix us up, but it did not give me much confidence in the nurses during that hospital stay.
