My old machining lecturer used to work at a machine shop/factory as a machinist. They would work large blocks of aluminum down to saleable parts.

The factory manager would give them a bonus but take off money for every part in their scrap bin.

My lecturer was good but never got the full bonus, unlike his coworker. 

[Coworker] always got the full bonus, even with the new, difficult jobs. The funny thing was that [Coworker] didn’t even have any experience, and to talk to him, he seemed utterly clueless; the guys didn’t like him much.

That was, until the police turned up and took [Coworker] away. It turned out that when [Coworker] made a mistake, he cut a bit off at a time until the massive block of metal turned into dust and chips. 

He cost the company thousands to get a bonus of £50.

During the health crisis, my mum’s gotten exceptionally bored as she’s had to shield, so she has picked up the hobby of bird watching by looking at the front garden from her chair in the living room. She’s been very successful in getting birds — almost exclusively sparrows — to flock as she’s been putting an inordinate amount of varied bird food, plus housing, out for them on the tree just outside that window. These are probably the most pampered — and fattest — wild sparrows in the UK.

As we’ve been hit by snow, Mum’s aggressive bird feeding policy has only upped, resulting in a LOT of fat little sparrows gathering. As of the week of this story, we’ve got about a hundred of the little hooligans fighting over the abundance of food and attacking every other non-sparrow that so much as glances at it.

I’ve made a cup of tea and, upon reentering the living room, I notice that all the little fat things have gone and that a lone sparrowhawk — without any prey — is perched on the tree with the food on. I slowly get my phone out to take a picture.

My mum is sat in the chair next to the window.

Mum: “What are you doing?”

Me: “Don’t move; there’s a sparrowhawk.”

Mum: “It’s just a large sparrow.”

Me: “Did you actually look?”

She looks directly at the MUCH LARGER THAN A SPARROW sparrowhawk.

Mum: “It’s just a sparrow… Where are the other sparrows?”

I’m struggling with my phone whilst trying not to spill my tea.

Me: “They’ve f***ed off cause a sparrowhawk tried and failed to nom them.”

Mum: “It’s not a sparrow—”

The sparrowhawk flies off.

Mum: “Oh, it was a sparrowhawk. I thought it was a sparrow.”

Me: “It’s like 100 times the size! Only the colouring is similar!”

I am a volunteer vaccine marshall. My colleagues work hard to make sure as many people are vaccinated as quickly and smoothly as possible. We do almost every part of the process except check the patients in when they arrive and actually inject the vaccine.

Today, we have both of the vaccines currently offered by the NHS. One is preferred by most of those who have read about it. I agree it’s the superior vaccine, as do most experts, but either will keep you safe. My job today is to take people from the waiting room to a vaccination room, so I actually get to decide who gets which vaccine. But I have been told that individuals don’t get to choose; they should take whichever vaccine they are offered.

Because I want to be fair, I decide on a rule of how to direct the patients into the two vaccination rooms, so I am not actually making that decision; it’s random depending on when you come to the front of the queue. People go to whichever room has a space. If both rooms have a space, then I direct the patients to the “better” vaccine room until it’s full again, and then the next patients go to the other room. 

While both rooms are fully occupied, I hear a man go to the doctor working check-in and have an increasingly animated discussion with him about why he should get the “better” vaccine. The doctor is stoic, never admitting there are two being offered today, and not allowing him to choose. Meanwhile, as the argument continues, spaces open in his preferred vaccine room. I fill them according to my rules. When the argumentative man finally gives up arguing and joins those in the waiting area, I pick him out when his turn comes up and send him to the only room that is accepting patients at that moment, which is not the vaccine he wanted. 

If I hadn’t spent so long arguing for the other vaccine, he would have got it!

I’m the idiot in this story. My friend and I visit London shortly after some attacks. One of the museums we visit has set up security checks. There are two security officers, so my friend and I hand over our handbags.

Security #1: “Good morning. Anything sharp?”

Me: “No.”

Security #1: *To his colleague* “Careful, this one has knitting.”

It dawns on me that knitting needles are considered sharp objects and grin sheepishly.

Security #2: “This one, too, but she told me.”

Security #1: “Any scissors?”

Me: “Yes, in my fanny pack.”

I’m searching but I’m already nervous about the needles mixup and I cannot find them.

Me: “Yes, well, I seem to have trouble finding them, but they are air carrier safe with a less than 2.5-inch blade and dull points.”

The officer just sighed and let me go through. I later noticed that in my recently added manicure set, there was a pair of scissors with sharp points. I’m since then much more aware of what I carry in my purse! If only because blood is so difficult to clean out of wool.

My grandpa is a very tall, straight-back, and straight-laced veteran with a no-nonsense attitude who diligently attends church every Sunday. He occasionally mentions his aunt and her friend; when Grandpa isn’t around, Granny clarifies that they’re lesbians in a long-term committed relationship and that Grandpa just isn’t comfortable talking about them like that.

Now, he is in his late eighties and has somehow gotten sterner. My mum, older sister, and I have gone over to see my grandparents. My older sister is dating a trans man. We are all having a chat in the living room and the subject of her boyfriend comes up. I can’t quite remember how it gets to this point, but it does.

Mum: “Oh, he’s a transman.”

Grandpa: “A what? What’s that?”

There’s a bit of an awkward pause and my sister glares daggers at my mum.

Sister: “He’s a transgender man. It means he was born a female, realised he was born into the wrong body, and is transitioning into man. He’s on hormone therapy and will soon have one of his surgeries, and I’ll be there to help him through it.”

Granny: “Oh… She’s—”

Grandpa: *Sharply* “He.”

Granny: “No, [Grandpa], she was born—”

Grandpa: “I heard. But he is a he. He is [Sister]’s boyfriend. He is a trans man. He is having hormones to be a man. He is thus a man and the appropriate pronoun is he.” *To my sister* “Unless he prefers different pronouns?”

Sister: “N-no, his pronouns are he/him.”

Grandpa: “There we go. He. Not she.”

Granny: “She’s clearly confused!”

Grandpa: “No! He is not. I imagine he was much less confused when he was growing up not feeling like he belonged in his own body! You’re confused; he’s not! I hate that word! They called my aunt ‘confused’ and they set fire to her home and threw bricks through her windows because they were ‘confused’ by who she loved! They were happy, consenting adults. That’s all that mattered! This man is happy as a man, and it’s nobody else’s place to tell him he’s wrong or confused! It doesn’t affect anyone else!”

My grandpa died of cancer a few years back, but his tirade is a very fond memory I have of him as it allowed me to see a side I hadn’t known was there. My granny did improve her knowledge and opinions on transgender issues, though.

This story is part of our Feel Good roundup for February 2021!

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Read the Feel Good roundup for February 2021!