(Our store has a separate counter for plumbers and electricians. One Saturday I am covering this counter when an older man comes in.)

Me: “Are you registered with us, sir?”

Customer: “No.”

Me: “Are you a qualified plumber or electrician?”

Customer: “No.”

(I check the public counter; it’s empty.)

Me: “Sir, this is a counter for tradesmen in plumbing and electrics. If you go through that door on the left you’ll go to the public counter.”

Customer: *irate* “I came here to buy electrics! Your front door is misleading!”

Me: “Sir, it says, ‘Plumbers & Electricians,’ not, ‘Plumbing & Electrics.'”

(I am a museum curator at a transport museum. I’m teaching a class of six-year-olds and have asked them to take a close look at the wheels on one of our buses. As I move around checking they can all reach one, a little girl stops me with a worried expression.)

Girl: “[Boy] says girls can’t touch wheels; he says we aren’t allowed.”

Me: “Oh, really? Where’s [Boy]?”

(The other children all turn and look at one boy.)

Me: “If girls can’t touch the buses, why do you think there is a woman running the whole place? I even drive the tractors! Don’t forget: girls can do anything. Now, everyone, have a good look at those wheels.”

Girl: “Wow!”

(I  work as a barista for a popular coffee shop chain. It’s coming up to closing time, and my coworker and I are the last two left on shift. My coworker is on drinks and I’m on till. We have a customer come up to the counter and place an order:)

Customer: “I’d like a mocha and one of those caramel shortcakes.”

Me: “Certainly, ma’am. Just give us a moment to get that ready for you!”

(Our cakes come pre-sliced, so they are virtually all the same; regardless, I try to sell it like the best one there, to make them feel special.)

Me: “Here we go! Picked you out the best slice I could see!”

Customer: “Um… No.”

Me: “Is there a problem with this one?”

Customer: “Well… It’s not got a lot of chocolate on it?”

Me: *looking between the slice and the identical 20+ slices left in the chiller* “I think you’ll find that each slice is exactly the sam—”

Customer: “NOW, SEE HERE! I’ve been eating caramel shortbreads since before you were born! And I’ve had them from your shop many times before! Give me another one!”

Me: “Right away.”

(I take the plate and I pick up the slice with tongs, put the slice back, pick up the same one again, put it on a new plate, and hand it back over.)

Customer: “See?! Was that so hard!? I won’t be sold short; I know what my caramel shortbreads look like!”

(She paid with a huff and stormed off with her coffee and cake. I should add that all our cakes are behind glass, so she could see the whole thing. My coworker was desperately trying not to laugh out loud as the customer walked away.)

(I decide to bring in some cakes for my office, as a bit of a pick-me-up for the team. We’ve all been having a rough few weeks. One downside is my coworker who always takes it upon himself to offer other peoples’ food, but not before taking his “share” to ensure that he gets his first. I have asked him not to, and he sarcastically calls me the doughnut police or similar. Today he has outdone himself; not only does he take plenty for himself, he then disappears around the company to tell everyone to go to the office to get theirs, actually taking food from the people he works with every day, to try to make himself popular. As I see him through the window, sending worker after worker up to us, I have an idea.)

Coworker: “Where’s my cakes?! I left them right here?!”

Me: “I don’t know; it was weird. A lot of people appeared from nowhere; one of them must have taken them.”

Coworker: *angry* “And you didn’t stop them?”

Me: “What do I look like? The doughnut police?”

(I am 12 years old. My parents and I visit London to stay with my grandmother for a while. On our first night, the grownups are all talking, and I get bored.)

Me: “Mum, can I go for a walk and explore the neighbourhood for a bit?”

Mum: “Well, all right, but don’t go too far.”

(I walk down the street, turn a corner, turn another corner, and soon realize that I am hopelessly lost. This particular neighbourhood has houses that all look virtually identical, and I can’t figure out where I am. I know my grandmother’s address, but there is no one around to ask. I wander for what feels like hours, crying my eyes out, until my dad finally finds me and brings me back to the house.)

Mum: *crying* “Oh, thank goodness! We were so worried!” *hugs me*

Nana: “Is that all you’re going to say to her? You should be scolding her for being gone for so long.”

Mum: “She didn’t mean to get lost.”

Nana: “Even so, a good spanking would teach her a lesson.”

Mum: *coldly* “I don’t hit my daughter, thank you very much.”

(I always knew that Nana didn’t like me, but her eagerness to punish a crying child was a shock.)