I work in a small village pub which is well known for our food. Every Saturday and Sunday since I have started working there has been fully booked. We have a waiting list and you have to make a reservation about three weeks in advance for the weekend because it’s so popular.

That said, my manager/the landlord isn’t a local to the small village. Because of this, she feels that she has to accommodate the locals to foster goodwill. The locals get away with so much crap that it’s rather impressive.

One day, I start work on a Saturday and quickly realise that all of the tables in the restaurant have been rearranged and there are massive 50th birthday banners everywhere.

Parties are not unusual, and the restaurant is typically “free” to hire out as long as you pay for the buffet and you bring enough people which makes up the cost to the business in drinks.

Quickly, my colleagues and I realise that the people in our restaurant section — separate from the bar — are not drinking any alcohol and only drinking iced tap water. Combined with the cheapest option of the buffet, the loss to the business worked out at about £1k by the end of the evening.

It turned out that when the local woman had booked the restaurant, she had assured my manager that enough people would be coming to the bar to drink. She didn’t mention that they were all of a religion that doesn’t allow alcohol.

At the end of the evening, when they settled the bill for the buffet, we were treated to a sermon about how immoral we all were for serving alcohol.

We made no money from tips that evening.

(I work at a tourist information centre. Pendle Hill is, strangely enough, a very large hill in Pendle; it can be seen from miles around and is impossible to miss.)

Me: “Hello, [tourist information]. My name is [My Name]; how can I help you?”

Customer: *on phone* “Hi, I’m just ringing to see if you know the postcode for Pendle Hill; I want it for my satnav.”

Me: “Well, the hill itself doesn’t have a postcode, but I can give you the postcode for the village at the bottom of the hill, which is [postcode].”

Customer: “Are you sure you don’t know the postcode of the hill? I’m worried that I won’t find it from there.”

Me: “It’s a hill, so it doesn’t have its own postcode. The village is right at the bottom; it’s impossible to miss from there. I really do think you’ll find it.”

Customer: “Can you give me the postcode for any of the attractions around the hill, just in case?”

Me: “Not really, since it’s just the hill, on its own; like I said, there’s a village at the bottom, there are a pub and a couple of shops, but that’s it.”

Customer: “So, Pendle Hill is just a hill? I thought it was like, a tourist attraction or something.”

Me: “Well, yes, it is a tourist attraction, but the idea is to walk up the hill; there’s a very good view from the top, but there isn’t much else to do there.”

Customer: “Oh, I thought there was more to it than that. Are you sure it doesn’t have its own postcode?”

(My family and I all go out to a pub and have a meal there. This pub was recommended to us by a lady who lives nearby so we decided to check it out. I order a salmon dish and the rest of my family has meat or vegetarian options. When I cut into my salmon it is raw.)

Me: *politely* “Excuse me? Could you cook my salmon some more, please? I like it quite well done.”

Worker: “No.”

Me: “Why not? I can’t eat this.”

Worker: “That’s how we serve our salmon.”

Me: “Yes, I can appreciate that, but I would like mine more well-done. So, could you possibly just grill it for a minute longer?”

Worker: “No. That’s how we serve our salmon.” 

Me: “Yes. I got that, thank you. Can you maybe take it back and cook it more?”

Worker: “No.”

Me: “Why not? I’m literally just asking you to put it on a grill for two minutes.”

Worker: “That will ruin the salmon and you’ll get food poisoning.”

Me: “Oh. Well, can you make me another salmon? I haven’t eaten anything else on the plate so maybe just tip it off and put a new one on.”

Worker: “Our customers like their salmon like this.”

Me: “What, raw?”

Worker: “Yes.”

Me: “Okay, well, I don’t. So, can I have another dish?”

Worker: “Oh, you want a new plate?”

Me: “No. Another salmon. That’s cooked.”

Worker: “No, that’s raw. I feel like you’re not understanding me.”

Me: “Can I speak to the manager?”

Worker: “Why?”

Me: “TO GET A NEW SALMON!”

Worker: “Why didn’t you say you want a new salmon? I can get you another one.”

Me: “And cook it? Properly?”

Worker: “Yes. Honestly, you should have said earlier. Everything else will be cold now.”

(Having just finished my weekly shop, I go to the till and scan all of my items. After bagging — in the UK, we bag our own items — I follow the prompts on the card machine. The card machine flashes a strange message, which looks sort of corrupted, and then it asks me to remove my card, which I do.)

Cashier: “Excuse me? You need to put your card back in.”

Me: “It told me to remove it; I think there’s something wrong—”

Cashier: *patronizing* “Okay, sweetie! You need to put your card in. I’ll tell you when to put your PIN in, and then when to take it out.”

Me: “I know how to do that! There’s something wrong with the machine.”

Cashier: “Just put your card in, sweetie. I’ll tell you when.”

Me: *rolls eyes to myself* “Fine.”

(I put the card in the machine and this time it makes a horrible beeping noise. I’ve worked in retail and have never seen anything like it before. It asks me to remove my card again.)

Me: “It’s telling me to remove my card again.”

Cashier: “Nuh-uh, sweetie, you need to put your PIN in first.”

Me: “I’m not putting my PIN in that thing! Could you swipe it, please? I’ll sign.”

Cashier: “You removed it too soon!” *speaking to me like I am five years old* “Put it back in.”

Me: “You know what? I’ve got cash. Just put it through as cash.”

Cashier: “Sure thing, sweetie!”

(I walked to customer service and reported the faulty machine, but didn’t say anything about the cashier. As I was leaving, I realised I had forgotten something so I darted through the tills again. I chose a different till. I overheard the manager explaining to the cashier that she wasn’t even meant to be logged in on that till because it had a known fault and was waiting for a repairman.)

(I’m doing door-to-door opinion polls, part of which involves collecting various kinds of demographic data.)

Me: “So, would you describe yourself in any of these ways?” *points at a showcard with sexual orientations*

Respondent: *giggling* “Heterosexual.”

Me: *recording the answer* “Okay.”

Respondent: “Nooo, I’m kidding! I’m straight! Wait… ‘Straight’ isn’t on the showcard.”

Me: *deep breath* “Miss, ‘heterosexual’ means ‘straight.’”