(I am meeting a group of friends in a popular local pub that sells food. I am wearing a black top and black trousers; unfortunately, this is also the uniform of the employees.)

Customer: “These tables are terrible.”

(I nod my head in agreement.)

Customer: “Will you clear them, please?”

Me: “No, I won’t.”

Customer: “What do you mean, no?”

Me: “Which part of my top has the company logo on?”

(She couldn’t have been more embarrassed.)

(I work for one of the largest supermarkets in the UK, delivering groceries to customers at home. One of the worst aspects of the job is stairs. I often have to take shopping weighing 80 to 180 kg up multiple flights of stairs. Customers often aren’t willing to help at all, and often the response when asking is, “That’s what I pay you for.” There have been two exceptions to this that make me feel good about humanity. The first comes back when I first start working. I have a delivery of about 120 kg that I have to take up three floors. I carry the first tray up and go back for the remaining six, thinking that doing it one at a time is doable but will make me late for my next delivery. Just as I hit the ground floor, the door to the block opens and two young guys come in.)

Guy: “Is that for [Flat Number]?”

Me: “Yes, it is!”

Guy: “We got this.”

(They both grab two trays each and RUN up the stairs. As a man, I can’t allow myself to be outdone, and carry the last two trays up behind. I thank them both for the help, but they just shrug it off, saying:)

Guy: “We’re all humans and need to help one another out.”

(The second came when I had been having a pretty rough day. It was during the heatwave, and I had just had a customer with a big order up several flights of stairs. I had drunk all my water and I was exhausted. I got to my next customer around fifteen minutes late. She was sat outside her house, and I thought I was in for a lecture. However, she was incredibly patient with me and understanding about the substitutes, and despite being wheelchair-bound, she helped as best she could to take shopping indoors. She then insisted I take not only a can of Coke but two bottles of cold water. Some customers don’t seem to think delivery people are humans at all, but the rare times we get a little kindness go a long way!)

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(I take calls for people who want to self-refer or refer others for a package of care. We deal mostly with elderly people who would like carers to come into their own homes. We also do carer assessments for people who need support looking after loved ones. This call comes from a professional physiotherapist.)

Me: “Good morning. [My Name] speaking; how can I help?”

Physio: “I’d like to make two referrals for carer assessments, please?”

Me: “I can certainly do that for you; can I take your name?”

Physio: *gives name*

Me: “Okay, thank you. Could I please have the name of the first person you’re wanting to refer?”

Physio: “Oh, well, I don’t actually know her name. “

Me: “I see. Do you perhaps have her address or date of birth?”

Physio: “No, but I know her husband’s name.”

Me: “Unfortunately, we need the details of the person you’re wanting to refer. How about the second person? Do you have their details?”

Physio: “I don’t… So, you can’t do anything?”

Me: “Unfortunately not. We take calls for the whole of London, so trying to find two people without a name or address is likely to be very difficult.”

Physio: “Okay, well, thank you. I’ll go and find out their details.” *hangs up*

(I don’t know what she thought she was going to get from me without any information on the carers. This woman was a physiotherapist, so was no doubt very medically educated… but obviously lacked common sense!)

(I’m talking to a courier representative.)

Representative: “It says here that it was put into lockup for the weekend, and now they can’t find it.”

Me: “So, it’s lost, then.”

Representative: “No, no. It’s not lost; they just can’t find it.”

Me: “I know you’re a courier company and this is the last thing you want to say, but if the depot cannot find it, it means they lost it.”

(It is England in the 70s. My dad has been playing football — soccer — and ruptured his Achilles tendon. He had it repaired and spent six months in a cast from his foot to his knee. He is at the hospital, with the cast freshly removed, for an appointment with a physiotherapist.)

Physiotherapist: “I am going to put this skipping rope on the ground, and I want you to jump over it.”

Dad: “No.”

Physiotherapist: “Go on; you’ll be fine.”

Dad: “No way. You’ve got to be kidding.”

Physiotherapist: “I know what I am doing.”

(They argue a bit. But Dad gives in. SNAP! The Achilles tendon snaps all the way up the back of his leg to his knee. He then spends nine months with a plaster from his foot to his hip. Fast forward to the 2000s. Dad decides to get some soil delivered so he can work on a garden bed out the front while Mum takes it easy. He books the delivery of soil and realises my car is in the way of where it should be delivered. No problem, he thinks; he’ll just move the car. It doesn’t start, so he decides to roll it. It doesn’t have to go far, so he takes his foot off the brake, uses his other leg to get it started and SNAP. The car is fine. But there goes his Achilles tendon. It’s on the other foot, but he knows the feeling well. Despite being in a lot of pain, he is already in the car. The foot he’s damaged is his left, and he only needs the right to drive to the hospital, so he does so. Eventually he’s seen by the doctor.)

Doctor: “So, what seems to be the problem?”

Dad: “I’ve snapped my Achilles tendon.”

Doctor: *laughs* “It’ll just be sprained.”

Dad: “I know what you’re thinking, but in this case, you’re going to have to trust me.”

(Dad gets a scan; it is snapped. The doctor turns to him, bewildered.)

Doctor: “How did you know? And how did you drive here?”

Dad: “Well, let me tell you a story…”